


bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh

by stormwarnings



Series: like the dawn you broke the dark [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, EVERYONE LOVES EACH OTHER, Finwëan Ladies Week 2020, Multi, Tags will be updated, canonical orodreth is the father of gil galad except he and finduilas are actual siblings, cat has an overabundant love of geography and sibling dynamics, f bombs are reserved for finduilas and maeglin, featuring celeborn: gentle and loving himbo, girls girls girls, hastily edited, i legit forgot how big glaurung is jesus, lots of maiar magic cause thats my jam, you know people are eventually going to die but ill try not to make it hurt too much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwarnings/pseuds/stormwarnings
Summary: In this world, it was not Fëanáro who called the Noldor to an Oath. It was not Fëanáro who dared accuse the Valar, who incited the Doom, who led the people across the sea.In this world, it was Indis.(Of the House of Finwë and the Noldor in Beleriand, and their eventual defeat of Morgoth.)
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Eärwen/Finarfin | Arafinwë, Findis & Írimë | Lalwen, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Finwë/Indis (Tolkien), Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Series: like the dawn you broke the dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963720
Comments: 41
Kudos: 91
Collections: Finwëan Ladies Week 2020





	1. of the queens in valinor

**Author's Note:**

> ok ive got like 2.5 chapters of this written but its for Finwëan Ladies Week and its my fix-it fic and i am SO EXCITED even tho ive written like twelve thousand words in two days and im losing it
> 
> this is day one - miriel and indis. enjoy :))

Melian was the first maia to marry an elf, in those middling days of the Trees. She was not, however, the last.

_No, that is not where to start._

In the beginning, there were three.

_There, dear heart. That is better._

In the beginning, there were three sisters. They were beautiful, and they were strong, for maiar they were. They sang and they danced, and they loved so fiercely. And though they served the Valar, they were enamored of Arda.

Golden-lady, dusk-lady, jewel-lady. Singer, dancer, weaver. Much is not known, of that time, when the world was bathed in quiet light and they walked among the nightingales in the quiet wood of an unknown world. When they would leave the realms of the masters they served. When even the Dark Lord of the North feared they three who roamed together.

And so it was that when the First Children awoke, the three sisters found another love.

When the Valar guided the elves through the land, the three sisters followed them. They shepherded them, watching from the past the edges of the firelight. Watching as Oromë left and then returned, as the kindreds split, as they wavered and feared. Watched, and became more and more enchanted.

And when Elwë wandered from his people, then he found the dusk-lady. And they fell in love, and the Eldar moved on, and so the three sisters were sundered from each other for the first time.

The golden-lady and the jewel-lady followed the Eldar all the way across the sea. They did not look back, though still there was regret in their hearts. But the jewel-lady too soon fell in love, and they revealed themselves to the Eldar in the light of the Two Trees, where their own light was less startling. And the Eldar were intriguing, the golden-lady found, for their ingenuity and their creativity and most of all, for their brightness. For though their lives were not fleeting, though they were not as quick to burn out as the Second Children that would come, the Eldar still were so very full of color.

And so Melian Lómelindë the eldest was wed to Elwë, and Míriel Therindë the second was wed to Finwë, and Indis Urwendi the youngest was wed to none but herself and the world around her.

It was on one such bright day, as Indis found herself in a lovely, flowing dress, that she made a visit to the house of Finwë in Tirion upon Túna, and to her sister. (Of course, it was not quite known that she and Míriel were sisters, in the same way it was not quite known that they were maiar; and in any case they were not sisters in the sense that Indis and Melian were sisters – sisters of the heart, for they both served Estë, but Míriel was of Vairë.)

So she slid through the gates, and nodded at the maid and at the steward, and there she found Míriel dining on the veranda, and glowing in the soft light of Laurelin like all the stars in the sky.

“Indis,” Míriel said quietly, and stood to greet her. “You look lovely.”

“These Minyar dresses,” Indis said to her. “I cannot express how much I enjoy them.”

The two stood side by side and looked down over the gleaming city. The wind skittered around them, blowing the silver and teal of Míriel’s robes, blowing the red of Indis’s. But there was an absence at their sides – Míriel, with her silver hair, Indis, with her fair, and Melian, with her dark. Melian, who was no longer there.

Indis turned, and looked at Míriel. Míriel looked back, peacefully, calmly. Their eyes, too, were the same. The Eldar called them dark, but that was not quite truth. They were void of the pupil, void of the whiteness. They were simply void, and they contained the spangled stars of the Music within.

"Indis,” Míriel said quietly. “I am pregnant.” 

Indis blinked, and then blinked again. “With child,” she said faintly.

Míriel nodded, and looked back out, across the city. Towards the pass. The light of Laurelin was beginning to fade, the world a soft gold. This was why she had been glowing, Indis thought.

Míriel was contemplative, though, too. “He will be the only.”

“He?” Indis asked.

“I cannot weave his future,” Míriel said, distantly. “I cannot read those threads.”

Indis nudged her. “Then perhaps you live a bit more like the rest of us,” she said brightly, but Míriel’s did not turn. “He will not be alone,” Indis finally said. There was an unspoken promise, there.

Míriel nodded, her eyes still shadowed. Then she shook herself. “I have designed you a new dress, in the style Melian liked. Won’t you come inside and try it on?”

“Of course,” Indis said quietly, and inside she went with her sister, and tried on the heavily embroidered lavender robes.

“Do you miss her?” Indis asked, running her fingers over the embroidery. It depicted stars and wooded glades, and three heads hidden amongst the birds and the flowers, and if one looked closely, they might have been dancing. Míriel’s gift with thread had always been unparalleled.

“Of course I do,” Míriel said. She paused, and looked at Indis. Indis, who was still young. “Oh, dear heart. You shall meet again.”

Indis looked at her sister, and there was a fire in her eyes.

“When the time comes,” Míriel said. “Promise me that you will do what you feel, rather than what is right.”

Indis opened her mouth to ask what on earth Míriel was talking about, but her eyes were shadowed again. A comet streaking past. Lady Varda’s holy light, and all the fire within.

“Fate depends upon you,” Míriel told her. “It will turn around you, and you must be ready.”

Indis put a hand on the silver-haired lady. “You are scaring me, Míriel.”

Míriel sighed then, and clasped Indis’s hand in her own. “Dear heart, I am scaring myself.”

But the conversation was dashed from Indis’s mind in the coming months, as Míriel began to show. Indis helped her often, running errands or keeping Finwë elsewhere when Míriel needed the space. And so, in the chaos, Indis did her best not to think about the cynical discussion, until one day the maid swept into the market and found Indis and said, “The queen is requesting your presence, my lady.”

Indis dropped the fabric she had been inspecting with a muffled curse. She strode away, in such a manner that it was entirely possible she flew instead of walking. The maid called, “Lady Indis!” but Indis did not turn.

For she knew, already, that something had gone wrong.

The house upon the hill where the king and queen resided was surrounded by throngs of people. There was a wailing from inside, and when it rose so the people flinched. Indis forced her way through, overwhelmed with the knowledge that something was off, and she barely noticed that the people moved out of her way as if compelled. She did not allow the steward to announce her, and instead went through the house until she found Finwë.

“My friend,” Indis said when she saw him, and then he turned towards her.

“Indis,” Finwë replied. His long, dark hair was in disarray, and his circlet lay discarded. He did not wear his ceremonial robes, and there were tear tracks on his cheeks. Indis pulled him into an embrace. “Please help her.”

Indis reeled back. “I am no healer,” she said guardedly, though that was the opposite of the truth.

Finwë laughed. It was a broken sound. He said, “Dear friend, you are shining.”

Indis did not look in the mirror, for she knew it to be truth; she was handmaid of Estë of the Valier, she who healed all hurts and exhaustions, and she the golden-lady had always had a brightness about her to soften other’s sharp edges. She said, “I cannot promise anything. You need to understand that.”

Finwë shook his head even before she finished speaking. “All I ask is that you try.”

“So I shall,” Indis whispered, and took his hand, grasping it between her own. “So I shall.”

But in the room was a sight that Indis did not know how to help, and for a moment she despaired that she was the youngest. _Oh, Melian,_ she thought. _Would that you were here in my stead._

“Míriel,” Indis said quietly, and the small word made the silver-haired lady look up. She held in her arms the baby. But Míriel’s eyes were empty; gone were the swirling stars that had once filled them.

“Oh, Míriel,” Indis said again, and with a sharp flick of her hand sent the attendants scurrying from the room. She slid into bed ( _oh sisters of my heart, why have you left_?) beside her, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She began to hum a song of light and love, tried to twist it through Míriel’s hair and strengthen it through the weaving of Míriel’s dress, but it slid off her like water. “What is his name?”

Míriel roused slowly, as if from a horrible dream. “Fëanáro,” she finally said. “Finwë believes we might call him Curufinwë.”

“Curufinwë Fëanáro,” Indis repeated, like a prayer. Míriel began to slide back into her stupor, and Indis hurried to keep her present. “Do you think he will be a warrior?” She asked lightly. She rested a hand to the babe and to her sister, and began humming a lilting song to her patroness.

“A smith,” Míriel said slowly. “He will be a smith, some day. But a warrior, too.” And then she shivered, her whole body, and her skin was cold as ice. The song would not stick to her. She looked down at Fëanáro. “He is so beautiful, Indis. In this world that so hurts.”

“If you would just let me help – ” Indis started, but Míriel interrupted her with a dry laugh.

“Dear heart,” Míriel said simply.

Indis was torn between trying to heal her sister, and keeping her talking. The fog was lifted from her eyes, for just a minute, and Indis caught a glimpse of the stars. “Please,” Indis finally said. She wished Melian were here. Melian would know what to do. Melian and Míriel had been friends first, dusk and stars and silence, and the gentle golden elleth had been but a tagalong.

“I cannot read these threads,” Míriel said simply, and sighed. “Dear heart.” And she pressed her forehead to Indis’s, and they curled around Fëanáro, and in due time an attendant brought Finwë in.

And in due time, Míriel Therindë left the house of her grieving husband and son and departed for the Gardens of Lórien. For Míriel the maia of Vairë did not only weave thread, and in the birthing of her son she understood better the weaving of time, and the pain that this world would become. And so Indis felt it when her sister’s soul departed for the Halls of Mandos, and it was jarring to her and to the Eldar, for death was unfamiliar to all of them.

And still, Míriel whispered in Indis’s dreams. _We were not alone. Do not make him alone, too._ For the child was loud, already, proclaiming his existence to the world with clenched fists and eyes like windows to the morning sky. When his hands hit the ground with the type of rage only a little one can produce, sparks flew. So Indis remained in the house with Finwë and Fëanáro, and she healed and helped, for she was full of light and full of laughter, and most of all she knew what Fëanáro could be. She whispered him this – _you are not alone. You will never be alone._

And in due time, Finwë desired to wed Indis, and Indis stood before the Valar who ferried messages between her and her sister. Míriel would not come back. So Indis said, “Let her take my place with Estë.”

“You would do this,” Manwë asked, his voice like the rumble of thunder.

Indis did not quail. She held Finwë’s hand, for in him and in Fëanáro she had found love, and told the Vala, “She desires peace. So she shall have it. He desires children. So he shall have them.”

“And you, Indis Urwendi?” Estë asked. “My faithful child. What do you desire?”

Indis tightened her hold on Finwë’s hand. What did she desire? A family. A home. Her sisters safe and together. _To not be alone._

“I desire a legacy,” she said.

* * *

In another world, Míriel left her son forever. In this one, she did not. Many a night after the marriage of Indis and Finwë he dreamed of her, of her silver hair and her silver voice.

_Spirit of fire I named you. Bold and unrelenting. But fire protects his own._

Fëanáro did not take to this easily, for Fëanáro was half-maia, and he was made of fire. But Indis let him rage, and sang him songs and stories, and taught him bits and pieces of his mother’s craft, and as time changed a fierce love grew between them. Because Fëanáro was proud, and angry, but more than anything he was lonely. And perhaps this, too, was the thing that changed the most – Fëanáro was strange, and terrible, and to the world around him he was more savage than he ought to be. And in this, Indis did him the greatest service that she knew she could.

Indis gave him others like him.

The first had hair as golden as Laurelin, and the same sharpness in her gaze as Fëanáro. Finwë called her Findis, but to Indis she was always Artarilma – noble radiance. She brought brightness back into their home, as Fëanáro cuddled her in his arms and whispered to her of fire and light and things that were beyond the Eldar’s reach. (But not beyond theirs.) They two slept in a pile, legs tangled up, Fëanáro ferociously protective of her. Some days, Indis thought her heart might float up and out of her chest from how much she loved them, and she would squeeze Finwë’s hand tight enough to creak.

These fragile little beings. She would tear the world to pieces for them.

The next was an ellon, dark hair and gleaming blue eyes and a cold strength to match Fëanáro’s fire. Nolofinwë, his father-name, but Indis named him with a mother’s foresight – Helcasúlë. For he would be ice, she knew, as Fëanáro was fire. And he grew too, following his brother with an easy loyalty and a sharp tongue.

Findis and Nolo and Fëanáro (who chose the name his mother gave him out of respect), and still they slept in a pile every night like the wolves Indis and Melian had once run with. Princess Findis and Princes Nolo and Fëanáro, who heard what others said about them and bit at the culprits with feral smiles and keen teeth.

Then came another elleth, hair as dark as night and strange eyes – one dark like Melian’s had been, and one a pale Telperion-silver. Lalwendë, Finwë named her – laughing maiden. For she did laugh, from the day she was born, and grew at a speed most unnatural. Elennórë, Indis named her – star heart. And so Lalwendë grew, with a hunger in her eyes, eyes that were surely too bright for even the Eldar.

“They are strange,” Finwë said one day.

Indis ate a slice of orange. The children were dressing for the day – Findis helping Lalwendë into court attire, one in blush pink and one in palest blue, and Nolo reading aloud to Fëanáro as the elder braided his hair.

“No,” Indis finally said. “They are like us.”

Finwë looked at her. He smiled, and reached over to pull her into his arms.

It was not until later, though, that Indis understood what he had been trying to say. “I miss her too,” Indis whispered into the silence of their room.

And Finwë breathed in, and kissed her, and kissed her, and he said, “But we are happy, my love.”

So it came that Indis gave birth once more. He was golden-haired like Indis, like Findis, but with Finwë’s eyes and Finwë’s countenance. And he was named Arafinwë, and Indis called him Nainasúro – the lament wind.

And Arafinwë grew up in a family full of love and a family full of oddities. Finwë was a good king, to the Noldor, and they loved him, and they loved his Queen, and they loved his children, but they could not deny they were strange. For they had the blood of Indis and the blood of Míriel, and so they had the blood of the maiar, though this was not common knowledge.

Fëanáro became a crafter, as Findis became a singer, and they two competed fiercely as Arafinwë watched gleefully. Nolo and Lalwendë gravitated towards each other, too, and Indis laughed as she saw in their fencing steps of a dance they had never learned. And they spent many an hour braiding each other’s hair, the five of them, and Indis watched with pride as they grew into adults. For they were not alone.

When Fëanáro brought Nerdanel home, the blunt, red-haired sculptor, Indis smiled at him, Míriel’s son. And he smiled back: Indis’s son. Nerdanel was as curious as him, and as brilliant too, and often their witty exchanges drew many a spectator (to the joy of Fëanáro’s siblings). And they were wed, and they were happy.

Nolo’s wedding was not long after, to the beautiful Anairë, she of the midnight skin and the sapphires gleaming in her hair. She was Nolo’s match, persuasive words and pointed debate, and edged like a blade. And they were wed, and they were happy. 

And finally, the youngest in everything, Arafinwë. He met Olwë’s daughter at a diplomatic function, and Indis had to stop Finwë from choking as he saw Arafinwë and Eärwen. And indeed, the silver-haired princess with her sun-browned skin was as infatuated with their son as he was with her. And they were wed, and they were happy.

Lalwendë and Findis did not marry. Lalwendë because she was stubborn and strong-willed and preferred to find her own way, and Findis because she became fiercely dedicated to learning, in many ways even more so than Fëanáro (and Indis wondered if someday, her eldest daughter, with her maia blood, might be able to comprehend the Music – _but that is a story for another day_ ). And they were not wed, but they were happy.

Soon, then, came grandchildren – so many that Indis nearly lost track. Maitimo and Findekáno and Makalaurë, Tyelkormo (the spitting image of Míriel with his pale hair) and Findaráto and Carnistir, Curufinwë and Turukáno and Írissë, Artaresto and Arakáno, Angaráto and Ambaráto and Artanis and the Ambarussar. So many, and they did not have the maia-light so strong in their eyes, but still they were strange and gifted, and songs of power swept through their house. Indis watched, and laughed, and her home was full of light. ( _Oh, sisters, would that you were here_.)

And then, as such things go – their happiness came to an end.

It started when they gathered together to celebrate the birth of Tyelperinquar, Curufinwë and Lintinwë’s ellon, and the birthday of Itarillë, Turukáno and Elenwë’s elleth. It coincided with another century of marriage between the High King and Queen, and so many gifts were given all around. But the most precious of all was the gifts from Fëanáro, for they were the culmination of his crafting, and the mark of his mastery.

“The Silmarils,” he said proudly, presenting them to Indis and Finwë. They were three jewels, shining brighter than the Two Trees, and Indis knew even then that they were more than Eldar craftsmanship. For it was not many beings that could pull the light from the very stars themselves.

“Darling, you have outdone yourself,” Indis said, and Fëanáro stood tall in his red robes, crimson with his plaited hair, a Prince and a smith and a father in his own right. “They are beautiful.”

Beautiful did not even begin to describe it. They were radiant and shining like the stars had once been, like Telperion and Laurelin all at once, and yet Indis did not quite trust them. For she dreamed of her sister, one night, and the twilight on the veranda so many decades ago. _When the time comes._ _Promise me that you will do what you feel, rather than what is right._ And Indis felt she was right, and especially so after the Valar released Melkor from his imprisonment and he came searching for the beautiful Silmarils. He called upon them three times. Luckily for him, Indis was not there for the first two; unluckily, she was for the third.

“Most gracious King,” he said, before Indis had even opened the door, and it had been many years since she had heard that voice like the earth cracking open in raw blisters. Then, “ _You_.”

“Me,” Indis agreed, and then flashed him a smile she’d learned from her daughter-in-law. Hungry-like. Indis was not a Vala, but neither was she an elf. She slammed the door shut in his face.

“I fear this bodes ill,” Indis said to her husband over breakfast, though she was still smirking. She smoothed out her face. Too much gloating, and she would begin to look like their eldest, and how he would mock her for that.

Finwë seemed still put-off by Indis so directly disrespecting a Vala. He sighed, though he was also vaguely amused. “You are, as always, a mystery, my love.”

Indis then laughed, and she thought nothing more of it until a few years later. For then there was a festival in Valmar, and the royal House of Finwë was honored guests. Her children and grandchildren were arrayed in brilliant color – Fëanáro’s house in his reds and golds, Nolofinwë’s in silver and ocean blue, Arafinwë’s in sea-foam and silver. Findis in white and coral, Lalwendë in deepest blue and lavender. They were a rainbow of a family, and their people too, dressed in their best. And the Noldor danced through the streets with their kin, and Indis felt at ease amongst the golden city of the Valar, and all was well.

And then came the darkness.

It happened during the women’s fest. Indis laughed with her daughters-in-law, and watched as Lalwendë did her best to juggle swords, and something thrummed in her veins – and suddenly all the light that had been was gone.

“Has the world ended?” Little Itarillë asked, quiet and slightly scared.

Elenwë pulled her close, and the Noldorin royals drew together.

“I think it would be best if we hurried home,” Anairë said, and even as she said it Indis saw that the square was beginning to empty. In the sudden darkness, the festival had ended, and the terror of it all was driving families to stumble back to their homes.

The delegation of Finwëan women hurried back to the house in which the High King had been bestowed, at the head of the square in which the Noldor were staying. But even as they reached the street, a messenger was hurrying towards Indis, and already she knew something had happened.

“What is it,” Indis snapped when the messenger stopped in front of her.

He seemed struck for words, but then he took a breath. “I bring a message from your sons and their contingents, your Majesty.”

Indis gestured at him. The rest of the Noldor were poking their heads out the doors, showing their faces in the windows.

The messenger bowed deeply. “The King is dead,” he announced. “Long live the Queen.”

And there came a wailing from the streets, or perhaps it was just a roaring in her ears. Indis could not have foreseen this, and yet she knew, even before they entered the house, even before she saw the anger and shock on her sons and grandsons’ faces, even before she saw how tightly Tyelperinquar and Itarillë were gripped by their parents.

For Melkor had come to call a fourth time, and this time he had taken the Silmarils and her husband’s life as well.

Indis did not remember much of what followed; Findis and Fëanáro and Nolo deemed that with the revelries of the days and the unnatural night that had fallen, it would be best for all to get some rest. Indis’s eyes watched, unseeing, as her family piled together again like wolves, just as they used to. The great-grandchildren were put in the middle, the couples curled together. The grandchildren slept in each others’ arms, uncaring of petty house rivalries or sibling bickering.

It was hours later, when all were deep asleep, that Indis came back to herself. She would go to the Valar, she decided. She had known them for thousands upon thousands of years; they had guided her, and helped her. She would seek their council, and request that they bring Melkor to trial for what he had done. She would get vengeance for her husband, and when Melkor was brought to toe so would Finwë return.

Oh, how she missed her sisters.

Yet when she stood to leave, igniting a lantern absently with the flick of her wrist, she found two figures already standing in the hall.

“Mother,” Findis said quietly, sorrow etched in her features.

Fëanáro stood behind her, and there was fire in his pupils like there had not been since he was an uncontrolled child. “We will go with you.”

Indis breathed in. Blessed, she was. “Alright,” she said quietly. “But you will follow me, and go only where I go.”

“Of course.” Fëanáro’s voice was proud, but not brash. “Nolo, Elen, and Naino will take charge while we are gone.”

“Yes,” Indis said, and wished for a minute that she had not saddled her youngest son with the name he had. _Wise. Star._

_Lament._

Indis, later, would not remember much of the journey to the Valar, either. It went fast, faster than it should, for with her went fire and light, and they did not bicker as they usually did. And while perhaps the pilgrimage would have been much for the Eldar, they were not Eldar.

She did, however, remember, in vivid clarity, how the Valar were gathered as if expecting her.

“Indis Urwendi,” Mandos said, and there already was doom in his voice.

But Indis was not swayed. Indis was not the child she had been. She was a maia and a mother and a grandmother. She was a healer and a leader and a Queen. She stepped into the circle of Valar, towering over her. “Lords and Ladies,” she greeted. “Do you know, why I have come?”

There was a rustling around her. “For the love of your husband, him who was slain,” Nienna said, sadly, quietly. “For your love of the light, the Trees which were devoured.”

“This is true,” Indis said. “I come for love. But I come too for justice.” She let this settle among them. “One of your own has killed my husband. One of your own has taken the light. For though the Eldar may know him as Morgoth, I know him as Melkor. And such, I ask that as one of your own, he be brought to trial.”

“Indis Urwendi, what do you accuse him of?” Lady Estë asked, her voice quiet and keen on Indis’s face.

“Murder,” Indis’s voice snapped out. Findis and Fëanáro stood strong on either side of her. “And the theft of heirlooms precious to us.”

“Yes,” Yavanna said softly. “The Silmarils. We are most interested in those.”

Indis fought not to glare at the Vala. “And why would that be?”

It was Aulë, Yavanna’s husband, that answered. “Curufinwë Fëanáro has managed to carry out the impossible. In your Silmarils he has bottled the light of the Two Trees. Now they are all that is left. Perhaps, with them, we could regrow.”

Fëanáro swelled with pride.

Indis said, “So you shall pursue him.”

There was a long silence.

“We shall not,” Manwë said.

Indis halted, blinking. “ _And why not_?”

It was Tulkas who answered, this time. “This is no place for our judgement. The murder was one of the Children; so must the retribution be too.”

“And whose fault was this murder?” Indis demanded. “For it was not the Eldar who thought Melkor was redeemed, to release him from his bonds. It was not the Eldar who passed _judgement_ on him, when he has only since sought to sow discord and darkness. I say, as Indis Urwendi, High Queen of the Noldor – my husband’s death is the fault of the Valar. ”

“You speak out of turn,” Manwë warned, his voice like thunder.

Indis stood tall, and her hands glowed with light. “I do not. You ask for our heirlooms, gifts of precious value, and yet still you stand and say you will do nothing for the demise you have caused in return. So I ask one last time – pursue him. For the love of the Children and the love of the light: pursue him.”

None answered.

“My lady,” Indis said softly, to Estë. “Please.”

But Estë did not reply, and only a golden single tear slipped down one of her cheeks.

And so Indis turned to the council, and stepped between her eldest son and daughter. And here she said: “I denounce you. I name you cowards. I name you fearful. I name you heartless! The Noldor shall avenge their King, and others of their kin who were slayed in the darkness before the Valar saw fit to take pity on them! We shall make war in the name of all that is light, and we will do so without the fickle assistance of the Valar who did nothing to stop him! I _denounce_ you!”

She turned, at the door of the council, and her eyes blazed with golden light. “I shall rain vengeance down upon Morgoth. And when I tear those precious jewels from him, the light shall return to us, and my people will know it was through no hand of yours. Indis Urwendi shall bring war to Arda the likes of which you have never seen!”

So Indis left no longer of the Valar, but instead as the true High Queen of the Noldor. And down the mountain she sped, the golden-lady followed by fire and light. And in fair Tirion upon Túna she roused the Noldor, and gathered them together. And to those watching, Indis suddenly grew in size, until she could have been likened to a Vala herself, with wings of light and her hair flowing back from her face like licks of flame. When she spoke, it was with a terrible voice, and to those who saw her it was suddenly apparent that she was not of their kind, and in fact had never been.

For in this world, it was not Fëanáro who called the Noldor to an Oath. It was not Fëanáro who dared accuse the Valar, who incited the Doom, who led the people across the sea.

In this world, it was Indis.


	2. of the sun and the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hm,” Lalwendë said, and bent back to her letter. _Speak to your second son, and to Naino’s eldest. Hidden realms, Carnistir tells me._
> 
>  _To Naino, a seat in the south. To you, a seat north-westerly. To Findis, the Havens with her husband. To Fëanáro, a seat in the east with his sons, perhaps. To mother, a hidden place of light, a rock to guide the Noldor, a Girdle not unlike what Melian has here. And to I,_ she writes, _who will journey in between._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day two!! lalwen and findis
> 
> lotta worldbuilding here but hope its enjoyed

The Teleri would give them no boats.

“I am sorry,” Eärwen said. “They are afraid of what the Valar might do.”

“Cowards,” Fëanáro murmured.

“Curvo,” Findis reprimanded her brother. “They have a right to be.”

Fëanáro rolled his eyes, but he put a hand on Eärwen’s shoulder. “Thank you for trying,” he said stiffly.

Elen and Nolo were preparing the Noldor to move, and Naino with them. So Naino’s wife had come with the three leaders today, to request of her father the boats.

And her father had said no.

“It is fine,” Indis responded distantly. “We will simply have to cross the Ice.”

“Mother,” Findis said, as Eärwen recoiled. Findis caught her brother glancing at their mother out of the side of her eye too; Indis had been strange after the council of the Valar and Mandos’s Doom. Strange and far away, and while it was true that the people loved her, it was also true that they now knew just how not-Noldorin she was.

“We could steal the boats,” Fëanáro muttered.

“Excuse us,” Findis said to Eärwen and her mother. She proceeded to bodily drag her elder brother away. “What is with you today? You are harsher than normal, and you scared the life out of Lintinwë earlier. Remember her? Your daughter-in-law? The little silversmith, whom you _mentored_? Or is she simply another victim of your sharp tongue?”

Fëanáro glared at Findis. He looked like he was fifty four again, trying to outstare his younger sibling. Finally, he relented. “Nerdanel,” he said. “Nerdanel is not quite happy to go. Eärwen and Anairë have each other, of course, and my brothers, but Nerdanel fancies herself all alone. I have tried to reassure her, but…”

“Well,” Findis said. “That will not do. I will go and talk to your wife, and it is up to you to go around and check on folks.” She hesitated, then grabbed his sleeve before he left. “Curvo. Try to…warm them, to the idea of crossing the Ice.”

“You think it is mad, too,” Fëanáro said.

“Of course I think it’s mad,” Findis told him. “I think mother has been off since we met the Valar. I think mother was off before we met the Valar.”

“Really,” Fëanáro said. He looked, if possible, just the slightest bit tired. “We could just steal the damn boats, Arta.”

She met his bright eyes, emanating a fierce orange light. Since the mountain, since the darkness fell, the children of Finwë’s eyes had been glowing most unnaturally. She shook her head. “You know we cannot. This is the only choice.”

Fëanáro hissed frustratedly. Then, “Do you think I could light fires out of nothing?”

“Brother, I think you could do anything if you set your mind to it,” Findis said, although that was a queer thought indeed. But she pushed it away, and pushed him away as he chuckled, and then hurried through the vast camp of the gathered Noldor until she found the standard of the House of Fëanáro, and there was Nerdanel, with her freckles and her apron and her red-hair shimmering in the firelight.

“Findis,” Nerdanel greeted, without even looking.

“He told you I was coming,” Findis said, vaguely amused.

Nerdanel laughed. “No,” she replied, “though I did feel it through our marriage bond. No, my husband is not nearly as good at hiding things as he thinks he is. Let us go find somewhere private to talk.”

“You are not truly thinking of going back,” Findis said once they sat down, though she tried to phrase it at least in part as a question. “You know we cannot.”

“My whole world has shaken,” Nerdanel replied. “I do not know anything, anymore.”

Findis sighed. “That is reasonable.”

But Nerdanel sighed as well. “The truth is that I will follow my husband and sons wherever they go, for I love them dearly. But the truth is also that I am afraid, and my husband is not.”

Nerdanel was nothing if not blunt, Findis thought. That was why Fëanáro had married her. She said, “We are all afraid, Nerdanel. Anyone who says differently is lying to themselves.”

Nerdanel raised a challenging eyebrow. “Your mother, too?”

Findis leaned back, from her seat on the ground. She tried not to care that she was muddying her dress. Her dress would see worse, before time was up. “My mother is an odd one. But yes. She too, is afraid. And – ” She paused.

Nerdanel raised an eyebrow again.

“You have more friends than you believe. Anairë, of course, and Lalwendë and I, and Eärwen,” Nerdanel made a face, “no, really! I thought her dreadfully boring too for a while, but she is only so quiet because she was trained out of saying all the horrible things that go through her head. Once you become her friend, sarcasm truly gains a whole new definition.”

Nerdanel smiled reluctantly. “I suppose you are right, Findis.”

Findis laughed, and put a hesitant arm around Nerdanel. “There are so many damned _ellons_ in this family, Nerdanel. We are still so young – ”

“I have a grandchild,” Nerdanel said.

“We are still so young,” Findis continued. “We elleths must stick together.”

“I suppose you are right,” Nerdanel said. “Then we are going to cross the Ice?”

Findis exhaled, and paused. “We are.”

And as she said it, the angst settled into her gut like lead. The flight of the Noldor had been, so far, controlled if desperate. The people were eager to leave, to return to the place of their awakening. But the Grinding Ice? Would that be a step too far?

Perhaps it was. Yet still the Noldor seemed to recognize the urge. The march north towards the Helcaraxë was fraught with incidents, but they all paled in comparison to the true danger they encountered when they began the perilous journey across the Ice. Findis had never thought much of death. Nor had she ever thought much of eternal punishment, of the waiting in the Halls of Mandos, or of the darkness that could descend on one’s thoughts. But the Ice pushed her, and all of them, nearly to their breaking point.

It was dark, all the time, the wind blowing and the snow swirling and the eerie howls of the Noldorin hounds responding to the wolves in the distance. It was colder than Findis had ever thought possible, cold enough that she thought she would never be warm again. The train of Noldor stretched far into the distance, and yet each night (or as much as they could determine when night was) when they made camp her mother would go up and down the line, miles of closely packed people, to check in on the old or the wounded or simply the scared. Soon Fëanáro was called upon to light the fires in the evenings. Nolo walked with him, or Naino or Lalwendë or Findis, and none of them knew how he did it, for there was no fuel to be found. The harsh red light burned quick and hot, and it was perhaps the only reason more of them did not die.

But many did die. The mourning songs would come up, at least once a day, as a babe was lost or an elder fell prey to the great white bears that roamed the tundra, or a too-cold and too-tired parent would wander into a crevasse and fall to their death. Only Nolo could really thrive in the cold, but even he went almost to the cold-sleep after too many a dip in the numbing water, and so his siblings (and, angrily, his wife) forbade him from trying to rescue every single elf that went under.

It was Lalwendë, and Artanis and Írissë, and Tyelkormo and the Ambarussar, who began the hunting of the great white bears. For the deer-like caribou that wandered the ice were easy to kill, but their pelts were not as thick as the bears’. And then all the grandchildren were learning, and even gentle Eärwen became particularly vicious with a carving knife. Soon enough Lalwendë forced a spear into even Findis’s hand, and they two went after the first bear on their own. And when they came back, victorious, for many months there was hope once more amongst their people.

In the beginning, Findis watched as many families kept to themselves, untrusting and possessive of the little food they had. But body heat was a precious commodity, and family units began to develop in the same vein as the House of Finwë, so that sleeping in large groups became the norm. It helped too, to have many family members available to care for the young ones. Itarillë and Tyelperinquar were put in the middle of their House, as the most easily defensible and the warmest, with the dogs (especially Huan) sleeping there as well. Then Indis, for none wanted the High Queen to be killed while asleep by a bear or a falling chunk of ice, no matter how much she argued. It was then up to the married couples to find refuge in each other and in their siblings, as they all curled into a tangled knot, with someone watching guard and keeping the fire awake.

But even the House of the Queen could not escape the cold death. It came first to little Itarillë, with her golden curls and her bronzed skin and her giggling smile. She woke screaming with pain, and they found that in the night one of her boots had come off. Findis held Elenwë and Anairë close, a glowing light about them, as they cried. For the toes were blackened and cold, and they had to come off, and then be cauterized. The stern and proud Turukáno wept at his daughter’s screams, and Nolo held him tight enough to break.

From then on, the two littlest were carried. Findis took her turn thankfully, for the warm weight of the child on her back was a welcome reminder that they were still alive. She mourned, though, the normal childhood that they two and others in the march, had lost.

And Itarillë was not the only one. It became more and more frequent throughout the Noldor that with their dwindling supplies of poultice, that limbs simply had to be removed. Maitimo got a bite from one of the bears that became infected; his arm had to be taken off from the elbow down. Findis helped, using the skills her mother had taught her long ago, which came from the maia Estë. Then it was Lalwendë’s fingers, as she rushed headfirst into a blizzard to find Artaresto and Arakáno and the Ambarussar, gone hunting. Even Naino, quiet and ever-resilient, confessed that he had lost feeling in his left foot one night to Findis, and he would limp for the rest of his days.

Indis still made the rounds every night. It was during one such evening, when she was gone, that the cry came up from Fëanáro’s young Curvo.

“Lintinwë!” He cried. “Lintinwë!”

And Nolo was shoving small Tyelperinquar into Findis’s arms, and Findis knew already that Anairë would be enraged, but Nolo was sprinting across their camp, throwing off his weapons, throwing off his furs, and throwing himself off the Ice. Findis ran too, mindful of the babe in her arms, and thrust out a hand. Light streamed from her wrist, brighter than it had ever been, as terrified as her heart. It was something she had seen her mother do, but never herself, and yet in the moment she did not care. It sought her brother, flowing over the Ice, until it came back to her wrist and faded along with the hope in her lungs.

Nolo did not emerge for too long. Curvo was there, and Finno, and Fëanáro too. Curvo and Fëanáro both were preparing to pull of their furs and dive in too when Nolo’s dark head broke the surface. He scrabbled onto a piece of ice, far below, and then Findis was doing something just as reckless as her brothers; handing Curvo his child, and leaping down like her feet had wings. For Findis was light and careful, and her food portions had recently gone to Tyelperinquar, and so the ice did not break when she stepped across it.

“Helco,” Findis cried, when she saw how he shook. He was barely holding on, ice encrusted to his hair and in the corners of his eyes. He was gasping, barely able to breathe, and his lips were blue. Findis wondered with part of her mind how long he had been down there. Five minutes? Ten?

She hauled him out with more strength than she knew she had. She was crying, tears dripping and crystallizing on her cheeks, as he shivered. And then he was crying too, and showing her a scrap of the brilliant purple fabric Lintinwë had worn underneath her furs, and when they stumbled back up the cliff they found that Curvo had already sunken to the ground in his grief.

“I tried,” Nolo said desperately to his brother.

“I know,” Fëanáro replied, and pressed their foreheads together.

Yet still they had to go on. Lintinwë’s death, even so close to their family, was no different from so many other Noldor that had fallen victim to the Ice. And so Tyelkormo and Carnistir and Findaráto pressed in close to Curvo at night, and Huan wrapped himself around the stricken Tyelperinquar. And perhaps Findis was more careless after her nephew’s wife’s death. Her heart felt filled with despair, as if the light would never come back. For if this cruel world would let one of her family die, who else might too?

It was one such night, the first in many years it felt that the snow did not fall, when Findis found herself sitting atop an ice ledge watching for caribou, one of Írissë’s hunting hounds at her side. And she rested, quiet and desolate, and fell into the cold-sleep, and perhaps she might have passed onto the Halls there, until suddenly there was a wet nose pressing against her face and a voice calling her name.

“Arta,” came Lalwendë’s voice, pleading. “Arta, please wake up.”

Findis, unwillingly, was shaken awake by her younger sister. And there was Elen, who had always been an unattractive crier, with snot freezing on her upper lip and tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Elen,” Findis managed to say, and Lalwendë gasped out a sob. She pressed her hand to Findis’s cheek, her two remaining fingers wiping the ice that had formed under Findis’s eyes.

“Arta,” Lalwendë said. “Look at the stars.” And she wrapped her arms around Findis, pulling her up and against Huan, and pointed towards the sky.

And the pale silver light that emanated from Lalwendë’s eye brought Findis back to herself. She moved sluggish and slow as Írissë’s hound whined. Then Findis did look to the sky, and she saw something she would later think more beautiful than even the Two Trees in Aman.

“It is clear,” she said breathlessly. For it was. The clouds had moved apart, and far away the stars glimmered in the patch of sky, more majestic than all the diamonds in the world.

“And there,” Lalwendë exclaimed. “In the distance!”

Findis looked where her sister pointed, and across the snow-swept landscape there they saw – mountains. A forest? Something beat in her heart, anxious and anticipatory, and warm. _Hopeful._

Hope was alive in her hands, and the light again too.

* * *

Their arrival in the land that would come to be known as Beleriand was not restful.

The Sun and the Moon in the sky, vessels of Telperion and Laurelin’s light, were a welcome change from the darkness. They might have once scared the Noldor, but after crossing the Ice, the light of day (though not Lalwendë’s favorite) was a reassurance. So they pushed onward and onward for many days and months, to the limits of their strength, and finally came to camp in a region Carnistir and Turukáno were calling Hithlum, and Mithrim. The people were just glad to be staying still, and the camp was alive and relieved, cooking over true fire and eating greens for the first time in too long.

It was then that the messenger of Morgoth appeared and demanded to carry a statement to their King.

When they heard the commotion (when Lalwendë heard the commotion, and alerted her brother) Fëanáro sprinted with her towards the eastern end of the camp. “Who is on guard there?” Fëanáro asked as they ran.

“Tyelkormo,” Lalwendë told him. “And Írissë. And a few of their friends.”

Fëanáro almost tripped over a small child. “Whose idea was that?”

“I am sure they did not start a fight,” Lalwendë said optimistically.

“Then you have more confidence than I,” Fëanáro told her, with that insufferable elder-sibling tone that he frequently took.

Yet for once Lalwendë was right. Tyelko and Írissë stood tall, with their swords crossed and their legs spread, power rippling in their stances. Eight warriors stood with them. They would look more formidable, Lalwendë supposed, if they were not still smiling slightly with joy from the warmth.

“And who might you be,” Lalwendë said to the messenger, who was a twisted and pale thing.

He did not acknowledge her. He turned instead to her brother. “Curufinwë Fëanáro. My Lord Morgoth sends his greetings to the new King, and a message too.”

Lalwendë would give her brother credit; he did not look as surprised as he most certainly was. There was only the slightest bit of a step backwards in his left leg, but he recovered quickly, even as Tyelko glanced back at him.

“We have no King,” Fëanáro finally said. “But I may certainly take a message for our Queen.”

The messenger’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally; he was surprised, Lalwendë thought. And possibly, oddly, unsure. “A Queen?”

Lalwendë shifted her weight into a stance designed for jumping, and rested her hand casually on the knife she wore at her belt. “Indis Urwendi.” She knew her eyes unnerved. She knew her laughing grin unnerved. She utilized both, and one of her brother’s ears twitched towards her. “Wife of High King Finwë. And rightful Queen of the Noldor.”

The messenger turned angry eyes on her, then back to her brother. “And what does the Crown Prince say to this claim?”

Lalwendë turned to her brother too. And for a moment, like visions of another world, he was wreathed in blood. He was wreathed in fire. He wept, and Lalwendë saw as this other Fëanáro combusted and blew away like ashes in the wind. Then she blinked, and it was simply her despicable, proud, ferociously loving older brother.

And he said, dryly, “The Crown Prince says what the Princess said.”

Lalwendë stepped up between her nephew and her niece. They stood eleven in line, hands on swords, in front of their Crown Prince.

The messenger’s mouth turned down, then up. His mouth opened in a ghastly smile to match Lalwendë’s. And he cried, for all to listen, “Then hear now my master now, foolish Noldor! Your quest is useless; your motives worse than fool. Already, the elves of Thingol retreat and cower behind their maiar Queen’s enchantment! Already, the Havens fall to siege! Already, the Hidden People face extinction! And all at the hands of my master, the Dark Lord of the North.” There was blood in his teeth. “Leave, or face his wrath!”

Fëanáro was calm still. Lalwendë saw his hand clench, and his eyes widen fractionally – anger, though, not fright. “I think we shall take our chances,” he said, and grinned just as Lalwendë had.

Lalwendë twitched. Her brother, attuned to her hyper-awareness to every aspect of the world around her, turned. Already, there was a question in his eyebrows. There was a hesitation in the air, an anticipation in the way the messenger was standing. It was quiet, too quiet. There were no birds screeching, high above. No goats leaping up the faraway mountainsides. Lalwendë felt the wind drift past her ears, carrying the smell of rotting flesh, and metal too.

“Ambush!” She screamed. It broke the silence, and orcs charged into view, the messenger laughing, high and choked. Lalwendë whirled into motion. The world slowed around her, and she smiled in return. Her father had never had a true reason for naming her _laughing maiden_. Perhaps this was not what he would have wanted.

Perhaps she did not care.

A knife to the messenger’s throat; already blood stained his lips and dripped from his nose – he had not been expected to return. _Yank the knife out, leap towards the orc_. Írissë had her sword, so she would take care of that one. Lalwendë had taught her well. _Check our people_. There was screaming, and she did not hesitate to move towards the orcs that were beginning to charge into their camp.

It was no battle. More of a skirmish. But still there were slain orcs on the ground, and a warrior with a wounded leg, and a terror amongst the people. Fëanáro jumped into motion, barking orders, while Lalwendë took in the world through over-stimulated senses.

“You,” her brother snapped at one of the warriors. “Arm those who need it – there may be a second attack. And you – send a message to my brothers and sister, to prepare to move tomorrow to a more easily defensible location. Set a guard rotation and a runner system, that we may not be caught quite so unawares again. Quick!” Then he gestured to Lalwendë. “We must hurry to Indis.”

“Father,” Tyelko started, but Fëanáro shook his head.

“I ask you two stay here,” he said, looking at Tyelko with his silver blond head, and the corkscrew black curls of Írissë. “And help the captain in all he needs.” He glanced towards the elf, with black locks and blue colors. “Captain…”

“Ektelion, my liege,” the elf said. He nodded to Tyelkormo and Írissë. “We would be honored to have your assistance.”

Fëanáro nodded once, and then he and Lalwendë set off.

“You need a new sword,” Fëanáro said off-handedly, as they strode through the camp. Two of the warriors were following close behind them, and Fëanáro’s red cape flapped out. “It is a wonder, sister, how you manage to destroy even the finest of craftsmanship.”

Lalwendë scoffed. He was off, she could tell. He had not been expecting the attack. She said, “Maitimo and Findekáno are married.”

“This is no place for jokes.”

“Brother, I am not joking. Sex is no quiet thing when both parties are eager and joyful participants.”

For the second time in as many hours, Fëanáro almost tripped over a small child. “Lalwendë, this is _not the time_.”

“I thought it was funny to watch you twitch,” Lalwendë said, and laughed as he glared. “I am kidding, about that last bit at least. You see? Even in these dark times, there is good. It is like the moon in the night. A gift, and a blessing. We must remember that, even when it is hard.”

Fëanáro was silent for a moment. “Sometimes you are wiser than I give you credit for.”

“Did that hurt?” Lalwendë asked. “Did it physically ail you to say that?”

Fëanáro rolled his eyes, and pulled back the flap of the tent Indis was in. “ _Later_ , Elen.”

And so as the sun set on the first year of this new age, Indis the High Queen gathered a war council.

It was determined that the Noldor would split their hosts. Findis and Eärwen would make haste with a group of fighters to Nowë at the Havens, for Nowë was distant kin of Naino’s wife. The Noldor would begin marching east, to spread out and build. Already, Nolo and Anairë had begun construction plans for a mountain fortress. And there were, of course, other systems to be put in place – couriers, and beacons that would eventually have to be lit, and creating roads of travel between different settlements.

But first, Indis told them: Findis to the Havens of the Falas. “And Lalwendë,” she said, turning her indeterminable gaze on her younger daughter. “I beg of you to make haste to the kingdom of Doriath, and my sister Melian, and give her this letter.”

And though Lalwendë did not like the idea of her family scattering to the wind, she did not argue. Instead she said, “I will take with me but a few warriors. They must be able to keep up.”

“Then I suppose you must hand-pick them,” Naino said, his eyes laughing.

Lalwendë rolled her eyes, though this was not a bad idea. “Captain Ektelion,” she finally decided. “And some of his folk. Too, I will take Artaresto and Arakáno. Perhaps Artaresto might even map out the land we ride through. And,” she hesitated, and glanced to Fëanáro. “Which of yours might you spare? It would look best to have a representative of each House.”

Fëanáro hummed in acknowledgement. “Ambarussar,” he finally said.

Lalwendë nodded; this was wise, for they were friends with the other two. “I shall take Artanis as well,” she said. “For it will do her well to work on her swordsmanship.”

“As you say, sister,” Naino and Nolo agreed. Findis merely nodded, her eyes faraway and contemplative.

So this was decided. And soon Lalwendë took her pick of the horses (some of the roaming wild herds had mingled and bred with the few steeds of Aman that had survived the Ice, and so became domesticated) and prepared herself for the long ride to where Doriath ought to be.

They set out in early spring, just as Nolo’s mountain fortress (Barad Eithel, they were calling it – _Tower of the Well_ , for the river that began in these same hills) was but the bare bones complete. The snowmelt was running down the mountains, and the horses were champing at the bit, and Lalwendë could no longer stay in one place. She said farewell to her family, and to the portion of the Noldor who had begun settling into Mithrim, and then they were off.

The lands east of the sea were strange, Lalwendë was finding, though this did of course seem obvious. There were no shining cities, no golden towers and pearl walls. Instead, there were valleys, and forests, and roads made only of dirt. Crevices, and dark things that in them slept, and howling creatures that roamed just past the firelight. It was wide open plains, and falcons screaming overhead, and the mountains in the far off distance.

It was wild. It was, for the first time, a place that made Lalwendë feel like she was home.

Daughter of Finwë, too, did not mean what it had in Aman. There, it had meant pretty dresses, and delicate fencing, and riding horses down cobbled streets. Here, Lalwendë galloped, and fought with her double swords on her back, and the people did not fear her wildness. Here, her hyper-awareness, her sensitivity of every little sound, the way one of her eyes glowed even in the day – this was not strange. Here, they welcomed it, for survival was what they wanted, and survive was what she did.

Her niece and four nephews were not unhappy to leave. The building of the fortress had become stifling to them, just as it had for Lalwendë, and life on the road was not an unpleasant thing. They camped many nights, as Ambarussar hunted with some of the other guards, as Artanis practiced the broadsword with Arakáno, as Artaresto pondered his maps. And Ektelion, too, was becoming a fast friend to Lalwendë, and often they would spar without weapons.

“Perhaps someday,” Ektelion said, from his place on the ground, “you will not dump me on my ass every time we fight, my lady.”

“Ektelion,” Lalwendë said, from her place watching him lay in the dirt, “perhaps someday you will cease to call me ‘my lady’.”

“Only when I may beat you,” Ektelion said wryly. “Until then I shall remain on your good side.”

Artanis, watching, let out a golden laugh as some of the other guards applauded, and Lalwendë offered them all a mischievous smile and a bow.

“This is why you are the favorite aunt,” Artanis said.

“Good,” Lalwendë said, “and you may relay that to your uncles, please.” She flopped down and began combing her fingers through Artaresto’s hair. Artaresto was the only one who had inherited his mother’s silky silver hair. He wore it usually in two long braids that began at the temple, but it was left loose and flowing for sleep, and running her fingers through it was very centering.

Artaresto gently whacked her hand away. He said, “Are we quite certain that we will be welcomed in Doriath?”

“Not at all,” Lalwendë said cheerfully, “but I believe that it will be alright.”

“Hm,” Artaresto said, “for the amount of our family that has or will die horrible deaths, you are remarkably optimistic.”

“And you,” Lalwendë said, “are remarkably pessimistic. Look at the stars, Artaresto. Is this not the most marvelous place you have ever been?”

“You are odd as always, Aunt,” Artaresto said.

“No,” Arakáno said in his sudden way, and laughed. “I think you are the odd one, Arto.”

Artaresto sighed, and Ambarussar came trooping back in with a deer slung over their backs, and all was well in their small world.

But the journey had to come to an end, sooner or later. And it was sooner than Lalwendë would have liked, even despite the rainy nights and the occasional orc ambush. They crossed a river and rode across the plains, and came soon to a dense, thick wood in the twilight of the day. The forest stretched into the distance farther than the eye could see, and it was dark and deep. Lalwendë held up a hand, and their company stopped. She nudged her horse forward, just to the edge of the forest, and then she saw in her silver eye a great barrier, gleaming pale in the dwindling light of the sun. No – not pale. It was the deepest blue, almost black.

A hunting horn sounded from within. Their horses whinnied, and danced uncertainly. Ektelion’s stallion reared. There was the beating of hooves, and an answering horn. Lalwendë’s blood thrummed in her veins, the adrenaline of conflict flaring in her eye as she loosed her swords. And then the border shimmered purple. The murmur of others, beyond the boundary. A elleth stepped out of the wood, and there was the whisper of archers in the trees.

The elleth ( _the elleth dancing through the tree – the elleth embracing a tall brown man – the elleth tearing out the throat of a great black wolf)_ had tresses of deepest night, and skin as pale as the moon. Her dress was lavender, and her eyes, pupil-less, gleamed purple too. It was as if she wove the night around her like song.

“Lalwendë,” she said, voice lyrical too. “Daughter of Indis.”

Lalwendë knew her, and did not know her. “Lúthien,” she replied, and sheathed her blades. “Daughter of Melian.”

And Lúthien held out a hand, and said, “Welcome, cousin.”

So the House of Finwë was given leave to enter Doriath by the Queen, and Lalwendë found a companion in this new cousin of hers, and Elu Thingol allowed the Noldor to occupy and divide the north and east of Beleriand. Many a year passed in this fashion, as Ektelion and her nieces and nephews made the journey between the regions of Hithlum and Doriath, bringing communication and coordination. Lalwendë learned that her sister had brought light down upon the Havens of the Falathrim, and the armies of Morgoth had fled in fear, and Nowë who was Círdan had declared her more beautiful than the sun of the Valar. They were engaged, and Lalwendë joined her sister beside the sea to stand as she married the Lord of the Falas, and Findis smiled truly once more. Lalwendë also journeyed the plains many a month, and greeted the sons of her brother Fëanáro as they moved to the east of Beleriand to establish their kingdoms. So with letters flowing in and out of the forest as Melian and Indis resumed communication after decades apart, with the High Queens of the Sindar and the Noldor in such close communication – it seemed as if even Morgoth’s armies in the north dimmed in importance.

 _The Doriathrim all speak what they call Sindarin,_ she wrote to Nolo one day, as she camped with the people of Carnistir, who were beginning to map out the established road systems. _I quite like it, actually, it is our language without all the sheep’s wool._

 _Of course you would think that,_ her brother wrote back. _Fëanáro thinks you are insufferable._ The three Princes were still looking for a proper place to establish their mother’s seat as the High Queen of the Noldor in Beleriand.

 _Tell Fëanáro to be careful,_ Lalwendë replied. _His dick is showing._ And then, to Carnistir, “What was that you said about Turukáno?”

Carnistir glanced over at her. He was so tall now, Lalwendë thought wistfully. No longer a small babe to hold in her arms, with even eyes and long dark braids. He said, “Ulmo spoke, to him and to Findaráto, of hidden places. Hidden realms.”

“Hm,” Lalwendë said, and bent back to her letter. _Speak to your second son, and to Naino’s eldest. Hidden realms, Carnistir tells me._

 _To Naino, a seat in the south. To you, a seat north-westerly. To Findis, the Havens with her husband. To Fëanáro, a seat in the east with his sons, perhaps. To mother, a hidden place of light, a rock to guide the Noldor, a Girdle not unlike what Melian has here. And to I,_ she writes, _who will journey in between_.

Thus the idea of the hidden city of Gondolin, the Sindarin name Turukáno called it by, was conceived. And it would be a shelter, a sanctuary, and though it would not be secret as it was in another world, it was protected by the magic of their maiar Queen. And somehow, ninety years passed after the rising of the sun, and though revenge still weighed heavily on Indis’s mind, and though many bands of orcs still ranged and ambushed, the Noldor were delighted with making their place in this new land.

It was nice, Lalwendë thought. This roaming life, between trees and between mountains. The itch of movement under her skin was oft settled, and she did not have to sacrifice her family for it. And Lúthien joined her sometimes, and they would hunt orcs with their bright songs and their sharp blades, or spend long weeks in the haunted marches of Nan Dungortheb finding monsters that were, in the end, no more terrible than they.

Yet Lalwendë’s mind demanded awareness, and her contentment grew sour, and she knew it had been quiet for too long. Which was how she found herself with Lúthien, stalking the high hills of Dorthonion and looking to Angband in the north across the green plains.

“Lalwen,” Lúthien called to her by her Sindarin name, as they made a camp one evening. “Why are we here? It has not been long since our last hunt, and my father is not completely pleased with this arrangement. He dislikes my leaving the Girdle.” She paused, then with unflinching sharpness: “What is it you fear?”

Lalwendë knew she was blessed to have this cousin. Even here, on this cold and lonely ridge, they neither had to try all that hard to appear as normal as they usually did. Lúthien’s eyes, purple and shimmering, and her black hair that shifted and slashed with a life of its own. Lalwendë, with her pale eye and the stars glowing in the other, and how she was less elleth and more wolf and moon and echoing howl.

But Lalwendë did not like being afraid, even despite it was in front of Lúthien. She scowled at the ground. “There is something moving. I smell it in the air. I feel it in the rivers. There is something coming, Lu, and I do not know if our peoples are prepared for it.”

Lúthien knew her well enough; she sighed, and let the fire die out into naught but glowing embers, and then she laid herself back on a rock to look at the stars.

“I heard your father wants you to marry,” Lalwendë said, still standing. She watched the north, watching for – what? She did not know. She blinked, and with the haze that often accompanied the visions through her silver eye, fires lit and fires died on the horizon. She blinked them away.

“He does,” Lúthien replied distantly. “Though I know not who. Certainly not one of your people; our mothers may be kin, but my father does not love yours. The language change, with the Noldor beginning to adopt Sindarin – this may appease him, but not for long.”

Lalwendë nodded genially, then, “Since when have you ever done what your father liked?”

Lúthien laughed. “This is true.” She hummed a snatch of a song Artanis had been strumming a few months ago. “Is that – ”

Lalwendë made a short noise, and cut her off. Lúthien moved soundlessly to her feet, and joined her on the ridge. “There,” Lalwendë said quietly, and pointed. For the fires were no longer just in her vision. They were real, and solid, and so too were the lines of dark shadows.

Lúthien cursed softly. “They will be heading,” she concentrated, and crouched, and drew lines in the dirt. “They might assault this region – of that I am unsure. Who holds the deep of Dorthonion?”

“Arakáno, Angaráto and Ambaráto,” Lalwendë said.

“Your names are so unwieldy,” Lúthien told her distastefully, and Lalwendë rolled her eyes. “But they three are good warriors, are they not? They have a large population, spread out, and smiths to craft weapons. Certainly the orcs cannot think to batter themselves upon that.”

Lalwendë crouched down with her. She pointed. “Makalaurë – oh, fine, what is it? Maglor’s Gap. That would be a funnel point, and the Pass of Sirion, too. In this way, they would get to Nolo and mother and oh, damn, Lu, what do you call him, Fëanor?”

Lúthien swore again. “We must warn them,” she said abruptly. “For if they cannot move through the gaps, then they cannot get much of anywhere, with the mountain barring them. And if your family has forewarning, then we may use the mountain pass and the gap as choke points. Yes?”

“Yes,” Lalwendë agreed. “To whom will you go?”

Lalwendë did love her cousin – Lúthien grasped the salient point of what Lalwendë did not say almost immediately.

“To Prince Fingolfin,” Lúthien determined. “I have no love for the sons of Fëanor, and to Queen Indis brings me closer to my home.”

“Right,” Lalwendë said. “Though truly, Fëaná – Fëanor’s brood are not so bad. They are rather grim, but the twins are sweet, and Maitimo – Maedhros, you call him? He is so in love with Nolo’s eldest that it makes me want to vomit. But that is a story for another time.” She sighed, though inwardly the thrill of danger was hurtling through her veins. “And to think we were going to have a restful night.”

Lúthien snorted. “ _You_ dragged me out here, Lalwen. There was never going to be a restful night.”

Lalwendë made a less-than-kind hand gesture at her, and then hovered. She did not know what to say – farewells had never been her forte.

Lúthien held out a hand, and they clasped forearms in that way that Lalwendë’s nephews often did. “Ride fast and ride true, cousin,” Lúthien said. “And may we see each other soon.”

Lalwendë nodded, and then leapt on her horse. She situated her twin blades on her back more comfortably, and her travel pack on the stallion, and then glanced back towards her cousin. Lúthien offered a somber salute, naught more to see in the dark but her gleaming purple eyes, and then she was off.

Lalwendë rode through night and day, stopping only to light the beacons near Ambaráto’s keep, and to rest her horse in brief increments. All the while she was aware of the encroaching army, though by now certainly the lords of Dorthonion must have seen them. (She dearly hoped so, or else her nephews would be receiving a severe tongue-lashing after this for their negligence.) And though by all rights it should have taken her a month or more, she rode the high eastern peaks of the Ered Gorgoroth, and her steed’s hooves shone silver, and they went as if with wings. In barely a week or so, she was descending into the chilly hills surrounding Himring and the March of Maedhros, as it was coming to be known. So it was that when she rode into her fire-haired nephew’s fortress, she was shining like a star. This otherness led to the commotion of the people, glancing out windows and opening doors.

This otherness did not stop her from more or less falling off her horse.

“My Lady,” a guard said as he caught her, recognizing her even through the grime.

Lalwendë flapped a hand at him, and consciously tried to stop all the sparkling. “Yes, yes,” she said. “Take me to your Lord.”

Maitimo was unhappy to hear the news, Lalwendë could tell. He rubbed his stump, as if it still ached with the cold, and Lalwendë reached out to him. She pressed his hand between hers, letting him feel the stubs of her fingers that were gone. Letting him feel the warmth.

“I know,” Maitimo – Maedhros, said, and sighed. Fëanor was with the Queen, still working on Gondolin. For now, Maedhros was more or less the Lord of East Beleriand. “We must prepare.”

And it was none too soon. Word came from Maglor’s Gap that the orcs were pressing through, and it was Maedhros and Lalwendë who led the charge, sweeping the army up as fast as they could, relying on speed and corralling the army like skittish horses, pushing them back through the gap. It felt right, for Lalwendë to fight again. The song of battle was nothing so romantic as bards often would make it out to be – but still. It put that hum back in her blood. It was where she was meant to be, this protection of those who were dearest.

The final retreat of Morgoth’s army was on the plains in front of Angband, and there did the hosts of Fingolfin (and what a name that was, Lalwendë thought) and Fëanor’s Houses crush between them the army. And Naino’s (Finarfin’s) archers stood along the hills of Dorthonion to pick off the deserters and a few of Melian’s folk too, and in the end, the bards would say, it was a glorious battle.

Yet they lost many of their people, in this first true taste of war and bloodshed. They found Angaráto laying in a pool of his blood, stabbed through the heart while protecting his lands. And Lalwendë blinked, and he was again a young little boy with golden hair, striding through the halls with iron strength in his face even as his chin quivered from tears. And Lalwendë blinked, and then he was a corpse on the ground, surrounded by corpses of orcs as he died with his sword in his hand. And Lalwendë blinked.

They burned his body at sunrise, in sight of Dorthonion’s green hills.

It was a glorious battle, the bards would say. It was the dawn of a new era, and certainly it was. An era where the Noldor again felt the stirrings of vengeance in their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave comments/kudos they are like crack :D


	3. of the silver and gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel spent many weeks on the road, leisurely, watching as grasslands turned to forest. She bypassed Caranthir’s realm, and stayed only a week in the hunting lodges of the red-haired Amrod and Amras (though the wood homes with their great hearths were almost a heaven for her). She was rather excited to see Celegorm and Curufin – to ride with Tyelko who was like another brother to her, to tease Curvo about the blond Lord who looked always towards the north, so many leagues south of Himlad. She hurried Ranyagil forward, going faster during the day, as spring turned to summer turned to fall. It was this excitement that led her to take a shortcut – Nan Elmoth was thin, where she thought she might cut through it, and she would not have to pass all the way around it to reach Himlad. 
> 
> Because truly, she thought. How bad could it go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day three - aredhel and galadriel
> 
> I want you to know before reading this that I have literally no fucking clue how to estimate distance I don’t even have a concept of what a foot is like if you asked me to tell you how far something was from me I would not be able to tell you anything so what im saying is the distances are probably highly inaccurate and the travel times too :)))) and youre just gonna have to deal with it :)))) sorry lmao 
> 
> as always there is a ridiculous amount of world building in this because i am having too much fun and i did not mean for this chapter to get so long (when it is so not great) but OH WELL

“Aredhel,” Finno called from his study, catching her as she strode down the stone halls of Ostavas, the forest hold in Dor-Lómin. “Aredhel,” he said again.

Aredhel paused, and turned to her elder brother. His long braids were twined with gold, and his tunic in the dark blue of the House of Fingolfin and the gold of Fingon. He wore a sword strapped to his waist, and his dark eyes were stern, older than they used to be. The Dagor Aglareb had hit the House of Finwë harder than expected, one of their first true battles against Morgoth. Warriors had been lost, and _Angaráto_ had been lost, and now, thirty years later, they were finally closing the mountains so that there was a constant watch on Angband. It was the hope of their grandmother, and Queen Melian too, that this would lead to a time of peace. But even in the peace, they had a taste of war.

Even in the peace, they knew the bloodshed that would someday come.

Though Orodreth, as Artaresto was now called, now guarded the Pass of Sirion in his keep named Minas Tirith, still ranging bands of orcs sometimes escaped through and onto the mountains of the Ered Wethrin. Then down they came into the forests of Dor-Lómin, Aredhel and Fingon’s realm, and had to be dealt with. And Aredhel knew that as their father’s eldest, Fingon stood with the weight of that, even with Aredhel’s help in building up Ostavas.

“What did you want, brother?” She asked, attempting to gentle her tone.

Fingon sighed, and said, rather glumly, “Must you go?”

Aredhel hesitated. “Turgon is not far to the west, you know,” she said, for it was true. Turgon had helped to lay the foundations of the great city of Gondolin for the High Queen, and then had returned promptly to his seaside palace of Vinyamar, for it was there that Elenwë was happiest. And indeed, with young Idril, it seemed Turgon was happiest too, just north of his favorite aunt in the Falas, and seated to rule carefully over Nevrast, adopting the ways of the Sindar who lived within the region.

“You are not wrong,” Fingon replied, and they both took a brief moment to thank the Valar for how much calmer Turgon had grown, with his city and his wife and his careful ways of life. He was not infuriatingly prudish the way he used to be – and the only time he argued was in his length letters to Caranthir on the opposite side of Beleriand.

“But still,” Fingon sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Aredhel said. “I will not be gone long, you know. Perhaps fifty years, or so.”

Fingon sighed again, and then reluctantly pulled out a sheaf of papers from within his robe.

Aredhel knew who it was addressed to before she even read the name. “Finno, this is a veritable _book_. You truly want me to take this all the way to Himring?”

Fingon gave her his best sad eyes, and Aredhel scoffed. How her brother – tall as a young tree, with broad shoulders and skin like the night – managed to look so damn _sad_ was beyond her. She took the letters from him with a roll of her eyes, and tucked them into a pocket of the travel pack she had.

They walked down the stairs, nodding hellos to the servants that passed, and bickering back and forth about the route she might take. For Aredhel took after her Aunt Lalwen perhaps more than her father would have liked, and she could not bear to stay in one place for so long. Establishing the fort had been well and good, but now Aredhel was itching to ride, to hunt, to shoot. So she was embarking on a trip round Beleriand – visiting her far-flung family and roaming from kingdom to kingdom.

“Where will you stop first?” Fingon asked.

“Well of course to Turgon, but then I must see Aunt Findis,” Aredhel said. “I hear Artanis – she is going by Galadriel now, yes? I hear Galadriel is there, with her ravishing Sindarin princeling. I want to meet him.”

“You want to threaten him,” Fingon correctly inferred.

Aredhel shrugged, smirking. Galadriel and Aredhel had grown up together, fighting and hunting, and dressing and dancing too, and so of course Aredhel must threaten the ellon who thought he deserved her best friend.

Fingon laughed. “He will not know what hit him. Where from the Falas?”

“Nargothrond,” she said. “To see Uncle Finarfin, and Aunt Aearwen, and then east, over Sirion, to find Finrod’s keep along Andram. And then up north, towards the domains of the House of Fëanor.”

“And you are certain you will not take any guards?”

Aredhel levelled a glare at him as they descended into the dining halls.

“Sister, you are a Lady of this land. I trust your ability to defend yourself, but if you will not take guards, promise me at least that you will send a letter from each kingdom. Just so I may know you are well.”

“Fine,” Aredhel said.

Fingon offered her a relieved smile, and then dragged her into a headlock. The residents of Ostavas were used to this, and paid no mind to their King and Lady attempting to knock each other to the floor.

The scuffle was won by Aredhel, of course, with a well-placed elbow to Fingon’s stomach. As they stood back up, Fingon said thoughtfully, “Especially you must send word from Andram, then, if Celebrimbor is still being fostered there.” He smirked. “And if Curufin and Finrod are still pining away.”

Aredhel snorted. “Almost certainly. At least, according to Tyelko’s last letter. Ah, it will be good to see them again.”

“And you must send them greetings from their favorite cousin,” Fingon said, and Aredhel scoffed. But his face went serious. “I shall miss you, sister,” Fingon said, and this time wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulder. “Be careful out there.”

“Of course I will,” Aredhel told him. “Of course I will.”

So Fingon and the people of Ostavas gathered to bid Aredhel farewell. Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady of the Noldor they called her, which Aredhel privately thought was a rather misleading name – she often wore clothes of grey, when traveling. But her cloak was the deep blue of Fingolfin, and the stitching shone silver, and Ranyagil her mare was a tall horse of white, and so Ar-Feiniel she was. She kissed her brother’s cheek, and waved to the friends she had amongst the guard and the folk, and then she was off.

Thus Aredhel left the forests of Dor-Lómin, and rode alone for several days. It was true that Aredhel took after her Aunt Lalwen; the hunting and the fireside and the solitude were more of a home than any palace had ever been. But it was true as well that this roaming was in part because of her father, for Fingolfin would still always be Nolofinwë Helcasúlë, and while his children were less maiar than he, still they had the strangeness in their blood. And so Aredhel did not have to worry about the cold as much as others might, and it was never hard for her to find water. And if perhaps she sometimes whispered a song to her arrows, and sent frost up the flanks of a deer she hunted, well. She was Fingolfin’s only daughter, and the White Lady of the Noldor, and that was that.

She crossed the huge valley of Nevrast, and came to Vinyamar. There she spent a few weeks, playing affectionate pranks on Turgon and drinking with Elenwë (who had held onto her Noldorin name) and teaching Idril games that would improve her strength and flexibility. But though the palace above the sea cliffs was cheerful and bright, with its hearths constantly burning and the rain that frequently lashed the windows, it was no home for her.

The ride down the coast through the Falas was pleasant. Soon she stood at the gates of the walled city of Brithombar, and there did Findis, who too had chosen to keep her Noldorin name, greet her.

“Ah, Írissë,” Findis said, arms open wide, hair flowing back golden. Her eyes shone too, even in the bright sunlight, and the gold embroidery on her dress was illuminated as if by the sun. “Or – do you prefer Aredhel, now?”

Aredhel leapt off Ranyagil, and handed the reins to a stableboy. She embraced Findis. “I will go by either, Aunt.”

Findis laughed, radiant and gleaming. “True, dear heart. For I remember when you ran around in naught but your underclothes.”

Aredhel grimaced.

Folk often mistook Findis – she was proper, a Princess, to be sure, but more than anything she loved her family. More than anything, she loved the light. And perhaps that was why she had married Círdan – for he had brought laughter and song back into her life after the Grinding Ice. And he had brought a smile back to her face, and here she stood, teasing her niece gently.

Findis ushered Aredhel into the Haven, followed by guards in beautiful colors – opalescent chestplates, and flax clothes in pale colors, and strings of pearls in their hair. The city was bustling, veined with cobblestone walkways and canals that eventually poured out to the harbor. And the sea! The smell of salt was in the air, and the cries of gulls came from above, and throughout the city came lilting songs woven with power, songs which made Aredhel want to dance.

But Findis led her to the center of the city, wherein lay the home of Círdan the Shipwright. And out he came, with the same sun-tanned skin as Aunt Aearwen and her kin, and with robes of blue. He too wore pearls strung across his hair, though they were not as intricate perhaps as some of the ladies. And he had a deep laugh, and he greeted Aredhel, “So this is the favorite niece, yes?”

“Well I did not say _that_ ,” Findis said demurely, but smiled wickedly as an offended cry came from behind the gates of Círdan’s home.

“Aunt!” Came Galadriel’s voice. “You have betrayed me!”

And then Aredhel was dropping her travel pack on the ground, and sprinting towards her favorite cousin as she rounded the corner – Galadriel in all her glory, tall and beautiful, with waves upon waves of pale and gleaming hair, with her intricately embroidered dress that she yet did not care to dirty. Aredhel leapt into her arms, for she was still smaller than Galadriel (Nerwen, they used to call her) and the two cousins laughed gleefully.

When the spectacle was over, Círdan was smiling as one who was used to this, Findis was bent almost in half with cackling, and a silver-haired ellon was looking at them with vague amusement.

“So you are Celeborn?” Aredhel asked, still held in Galadriel’s arms like a child.

The Sindarin prince was certainly handsome. His hair was long and straight, and his eyes deep blue. His tunic was blue as well, matching his oaken skin and showing off his muscles, and his expression calm and mild. He was, Aredhel thought, the perfect princess to Galadriel’s prince.

He said, “I have heard lots about you.”

“Only nice things, I should hope.”

Celeborn made a sly face – perhaps he was quicker than Aredhel had given him credit for. “Ah, well, you know…”

Aredhel laughed, and dropped from her cousin’s grasp to take Celeborn’s forearm. “Well met, then. Are we cousins, yet?”

Galadriel’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Well,” she said. “Soon enough. It is a longer engagement, for his people.”

Celeborn smiled at her, besotted and free, and Aredhel smiled too.

Findis said, “This has been a lovely reunion. Let us go inside, and talk about what has happened.”

Aredhel spent many months in the Falas. She threatened Celeborn only once, and then clapped him on the back and sent him on his way with a smile full of sharp teeth. On the last night, they had a festival to celebrate her leaving, and to celebrate the end of some fishing season or another. It was well-lit, with dancing and songs (shanties, Findis called them), and Aredhel found herself happy, sitting on the side and watching.

Galadriel sat down next to her, and stretched. “Ah,” she said. “I ache. Too much _dancing_ , lately. It is a joyful time here.”

“I do not want to hear about you kissing your prince,” Aredhel told her.

Galadriel scoffed. “Only because you don’t have one.” And they giggled at each other, the slightest bit tipsy, and then Galadriel said, “So where will you go next?”

“Nargothrond, perhaps, and then Andram. To see Finrod.”

“Ugh.” Galadriel groaned. “We saw him, not long ago, and though dearly do I love my brother – dearly! – he – ”

“Pines,” Aredhel finished with her.

“Exactly!” Galadriel exclaimed, with the air of one ranting to another intimately familiar with family dynamics. “Celebrimbor is there – I believe he may be my favorite, of the Fëanorians, for he is even-tempered though intense – and you would not believe how Finrod _dotes_ upon him. It is as if he is a second father, though Celebrimbor is fully grown twice over! He leaves Celebrimbor often in charge of the keep, too, and goes off on his journeys – we went hunting one day – and all the while it was Curufin this, Curufin that…”

Aredhel laughed, letting Galadriel’s chatter wash over her. They had always worked well, this way – night and day, stream and sky. But Galadriel understood silence too, and she leaned her head back to the stars, and said, “I think too often about something Artaresto – Orodreth – said, long ago, on that first journey to Doriath. ‘The amount of our family that has or will die horrible deaths’.”

And Aredhel knew what she meant without even saying it. “I agree,” she said, and sighed. “It already feels too quiet. It is so strange! For many years, we were content in Valinor. And in the years on the Ice, and before the Dagor Aglareb, we got so used to that drive. That terror. Now, with the Siege and the Peace, it no longer feels right.”

“I suppose we shall see,” Galadriel said, and sighed herself. “Here, Aredhel, you have made me maudlin.”

Aredhel laughed quietly.

Galadriel nudged her. “Truly though. Be careful.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Aredhel complains. “Be careful, they say. I am careful! I am a hunter!”

Galadriel said, “Do not worry, cousin. I will always come to pull you out of trouble.”

Aredhel turned, and smiled at her. “I will meet you in Gondolin before this century is up, Galadriel. You and your wedded prince. Is that a deal?”

“It is,” Galadriel agreed, and they shook on it.

So Aredhel took her leave of the Falas, and rode leisurely to Nargothrond. There was only one road through the forested hills, and as Aredhel took it she saw many dwarves, the small bearded people. They were strange, and yet they were kind, and they guided her to the caverns of him they called Felagund, which bordered the crashing river that Aunt Aearwen dearly loved. Aredhel was welcomed, and overjoyed to find her Aunt Lalwen visiting as well, and there was a feast amongst the grand halls to celebrate the reunion.

“Have you news of Artanis?” Aearwen came to Aredhel to ask one night, as she sat in a quiet spot listening to the fierce water.

“I do,” Aredhel said, and relayed all that she had learned of Galadriel’s tutelage under Melian, and her engagement to Celeborn.

“I am glad she is happy,” Aearwen said softly. “And I am glad you are happy too, niece.”

Aredhel looked more closely at her aunt. The sea-maiden was older now, with lines around her eyes, and a wariness to her step. “Are you?” Aredhel asked.

Aearwen sighed. “I miss Nerdanel, and Findis, and Anaer,” she said. “But I am happy.”

Aredhel nodded, and turned back to the rushing river, and forgot that her quiet aunt was, and had always been, incredibly perceptive.

“The elleths of this family are not often happy, Aredhel,” Aearwen said softly, and laid a hand on Aredhel’s arm. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Soon, though, Aredhel set out from the caves, for she could not stay under roof and rock for long. She tarried about crossing the Falls of Sirion, and then went on to Andram, where she found Celebrimbor in charge.

“You must be taller than Curufin,” Aredhel said to him as they ate breakfast one morning, looking through the frosted windows that overlooked the great grasslands north of Andram. The keep of Finrod was set into the hills, with an impenetrable border to the back and a wide open view of the plains to the front. “Is your father still running after Finrod with that look?”

Celebrimbor opened his mouth and let the soup fall out. It was much less dignified than his father, in so many ways, and Aredhel snorted.

“It’s _awful_ ,” Celebrimbor said. “I cannot explain to you how awful.”

“Don’t worry,” Aredhel said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I had to endure Maedhros and Finno’s longing gazes for forty years on the Ice.”

Celebrimbor shuddered. “I think that they have turned me from blonds for the rest of my life,” he said. “I will stick to my crafting, thank you, and nothing else.”

Aredhel cackled, and exchanged short stories with her cousin for a while until a steward came in.

“Lord Tirnand has returned,” the ellon said, and bowed to Celebrimbor.

“Tirnand?” Aredhel asked, as she swept her skirts back and stood from the table. She loved her riding clothes, it was true, but wearing her pretty grey dress with the silver embroidery was never amiss. Let none say that she did not live up to her role as a Lady of Dor-Lómin.

“Tirnand,” Celebrimbor said. “Keeper of the plains.”

“Ah,” Aredhel said, and then Finrod strode in with all the drama that he normally did.

“Cousin!” He called. “Had I known you were here, I would have hurried back!”

Aredhel grasped his hand and examined his face. His blond hair was pulled back in intricate waves as usual, not unlike Galadriel’s, and his clothes of many colors were as flamboyant as usual. But there were bags under his eyes, and worried lines at the corners. And strangely, he wore what seemed almost like a veil, in the pale green of the House of Finarfin with minimal golden embroidering, which fell across his back and over his hair like a pale hood.

“Sit,” Aredhel said. “Are you well, Finrod?”

Celebrimbor looked, oddly, relieved. Perhaps he had noticed too.

Finrod did sit, then, and even despite his joyful smile he seemed weary. “Simply tired, dear cousin.”

Aredhel scoffed at him.

Celebrimbor said, “What is the newest on surveying the territories?”

Finrod sighed, and pulled out a map. He spread it over the table, sitting a bowl of porridge on one end to hold it down. It was of Beleriand, a rough sketch, possibly by Caranthir or Orodreth. But it focused in detail on the east end, showing the territories of the Noldorin lords.

Finrod pointed to the eastern corner, next to the Ered Luin. “Here is Himring, and the Marches of Maedhros. Here is Maglor’s Gap, and the mountain city where Uncle Fëanor watches the pass and trades with the dwarves. There, along the border of Doriath and Nan Dungortheb, is Himlad, where Curvo and Celegorm rule, and just south, Nan Elmoth.” He put his finger more easterly, tracing it down the Ered Luin. “Here is Thargelion, where Caranthir sits. There lives a clan of the Nandor too, the Laegrim as they call themselves – indeed, Caranthir may be courting one. And then here is the wide plains north of Andram. The Ambarassar sit in their hunting lodges along the banks of the Gelion River, watching the middling part of the Copper Road which follows the Gelion. We have the south end of the Copper Road, and Maglor the north.”

He was quiet for a minute, until Aredhel nudged him again.

“There is a clan of the Nandor that hunts amongst the grasslands, too, as nomads, though their name is the Amon-kemen. I am not their King, but peace I would have with them.” He fingered the veil. “That is this, a gift in their custom. But that is not the issue – the Amom-kemen are a fierce people, but a kind one, and their horses are some of the most beautiful I have ever seen. No, the issue is the forests. The Amon-kemen say they were once inhabited by the Avari tribes; Ossiriand to our east, and Taur-im-Duinath to our south. But those places are darkened, and wrong. There is a shadow over them, and I do not wish to ride too far in, lest I will not come out. It is much like Nan Dungortheb. It is Morgoth’s poison. I am sure of it.”

A chill swept over Aredhel. She knew exactly what her cousin meant. It was too quiet, much like the world now, too peaceful. An illusion.

The conversation lay in the back of her mind as she stayed with Finrod and Celebrimbor for many months. The Amon-kemen clan did indeed have beautiful horses – some of the finest Aredhel had ever gotten the chance to ride, in that wild way that domesticated ones often lacked. They were kind, too, though their language unfamiliar, and rode like the wind. Finrod laughed as he told Aredhel she finally had real competition in horsemanship. But soon spring came, and after sending a letter west to Fingon with a passing caravan of merchants, she bade farewell to her cousins and set off on the Copper Road.

The road passed through the grasslands of Andram for a while, though in the distant east she could see the beginnings of the forest of Ossiriand, and if she squinted, the foothills of the Ered Luin. But that was not her path, and so she kept on the road until it joined the river Gelion. The Gelion was calm, as it wound through the land, but as Aredhel followed it north it grew fiercer and stronger. Still, her camps off the road were comfortable, every evening, with easily available water and warming weather and the glorious sky above, even when it rained.

Yet she wondered about the far lands, about the Avari elves who were not so distant in kin from them. The river was fierce, yes, but some nights it had an odd taste, as if it too was poison. The world was fair in these days, yet still on the horizon towards the Ered Luin there sometimes lingered a dark haze, and Aredhel frequently pondered it while she rode.

She spent many weeks on the road, leisurely, watching as grasslands turned to forest. She bypassed Caranthir’s realm, and stayed only a week in the hunting lodges of the red-haired Amrod and Amras (though the wood homes with their great hearths were almost a heaven for her). She was rather excited to see Celegorm and Curufin – to ride with Tyelko who was like another brother to her, to tease Curvo about the blond Lord who looked always towards the north, so many leagues south of Himlad. She hurried Ranyagil forward, going faster during the day, as spring turned to summer turned to fall. It was this excitement that led her to take a shortcut – Nan Elmoth was thin, where she thought she might cut through it, and she would not have to pass all the way around it to reach Himlad.

Because truly, she thought. How bad could it go?

* * *

The turn of the century came with much busyness for Galadriel. The wedding ceremony for her and Celeborn had been an involved process, and though Queen Indis had not been able to come, her mother and father had, and her siblings too. And then, of course, Galadriel had thought to head to Gondolin, not forgetting her agreement with Aredhel. But Aredhel was not there, and though Galadriel was disappointed, she knew that often her cousin got caught up in the world. So she sent a querying letter off to Celegorm and Curufin of Aredhel’s latest destination, even despite that they were not her favorites – and then she found she was pregnant.

So she and Celeborn turned back to Doriath, and gave the news to the King and Queen. And Melian had smiled at Galadriel, her mentor from the start, and even King Thingol had been less grim for a week. Aunt Lalwen teased her endlessly, and Lúthien too, but all was well and happy. Then it came to be that Galadriel was resting in one day outside of Menegroth, in a sun-soaked glade, as she watched her husband attempt to juggle apples.

It was not going well for him.

“Perhaps you should try only two first,” Galadriel suggested with a laugh.

Celeborn made a face, though Galadriel could tell he was endeavoring not to laugh at himself. He went again, dropping the third apple quickly. He sighed, and tried again.

Galadriel picked up another apple, hefted it in her palm, and took aim – with a single throw, she knocked the third apple out of the pattern.

Celeborn spun around, his silver hair whirling. He pointed at her, chuckling deep in his chest. “You are a traitor, dear wife.”

So Aunt Lalwen found them laughing on their backs in the grass not much later, and with some amusement asked, “What is this?”

Galadriel sat up very quickly. “Hello, Aunt, I – ”

Lalwen laughed, and said, “I am only here to deliver a letter, do not worry.” And so she was, and after briefly conversing with Celeborn, she departed.

But Galadriel was still concerned with what was going on in the letter. “Hm,” she said aloud. For it was from Celegorm and Curufin – and it did not seem to be a joke. They sent word that Aredhel had, in fact, never arrived to them.

“What is it?” Celeborn asked.

For where could Aredhel be? Surely she would not have skipped going to her favorite cousin’s (other than Galadriel) abode, as it had been all she would talk about when she sent word from the Ambarussar’s hunting lodges. And that had been…Galadriel thought back, her heart beating faster. That had been a few decades ago, and then Aredhel hadn’t even come to Gondolin, when it had been her idea in the first place. And then Galadriel remembered a letter from Fingon, a few years ago, concerned about something or other in a single letter that had sounded rather off. Galadriel had chalked it up to Aredhel being distracted, but perhaps –

“Alatáriel,” Celeborn prodded gently.

Galadriel turned to him, with his slow smile and his sure eyes. “Dear heart,” she said, which was an expression she’d heard Aunt Findis use for so many years. “I believe I may have to make a journey.”

And Celeborn, who loved Doriath but loved all of Beleriand, who loved his family but loved his wife too, simply said, “When would you like to depart?”

“You don’t mind?” Galadriel looked askance at him, for just a moment. “You will come with me?”

Celeborn blinked. “Of course,” he said. “You are my wife, but you are not a bird to be kept in a cage.” He ran a hand lightly down her hair. “Birds are only beautiful because they fly free.”

Galadriel smiled foolishly at him. “You are a romantic,” she said. “And I think it would be best if we began preparations immediately.”

So they did. They were out of Doriath and journeying to Himlad within a month or two, and Galadriel was glad especially that she was not too pregnant yet. And they took the road out to the fortress of Celegorm and Curufin, on the cold plains where they watched the mountain pass. And the blond and the dark-haired ellons came out to greet them, and they were no great friends of Galadriel but –

“It’s about Aredhel,” Galadriel said, before Celegorm could start teasing her about the fact that she’d begun to show.

Celegorm’s mouth snapped shut.

“Come inside,” Curufin said. He glanced towards the darkening sky, as the wind whipped his long black braids. His eyes glittered harshly, and the gold star of Fëanor shone on his chest. “There will be a storm sweeping through soon, and a cold front. It would not do for one of the Finarfions to catch sick and die in the winter.”

Galadriel knew this was her cousin’s cold version of concern. “No,” she said innocently. “Finrod would certainly not be happy about that.”

Curufin scowled and turned around to stride towards the huge wooden doors of the fortress. Celegorm, though, shot Galadriel a small smirk.

“So you are the Sinda that has stolen the baby of the family,” Celegorm said to Celeborn, and all companionship Galadriel had felt towards Celegorm a minute ago disappeared. The wind whipped up around her, the sky darkening even faster, and Celegorm put his hands in the air in surrender. “Fine, fine, I won’t tease your prince.”

But Celeborn had lost his fear of Galadriel’s family long ago, around the time that Finrod had cheerfully threatened to gut him with a stick. So Celeborn said diplomatically, “You are a patron of Oromë?”

The two, surprisingly, talked carefully about hunting for some time, and they got inside the lodge just in time to watch the storm sweep in across the highlands. It was a work of art, to Galadriel, who had her father’s blood more than her mother’s, he who had been named the lament wind, and even when she was a young elleth she had always loved the swirling charcoal clouds and the cold warning breeze more than anything. The rain pounded against the roof as a downpour began, and Celegorm and Celeborn (wonder of all wonders) sat down at the great wood dining table discussing ways of skinning deer. And Galadriel sat down too, watching the rain with a kind of mesmerized relief (soon, soon, they would find Aredhel), and barely noticed when Curufin sat down next to her.

“We got word from Maitimo several years ago,” Curvo said quietly. “That he had received a bundle of letters from Fingon that Aredhel had been carrying, but had not seen either Ranyagil or Aredhel herself. At the time we thought nothing of it.”

Galadriel sighed. “Fingon has not heard from her in too long, and I was to meet her in Gondolin a few years ago, yet she did not show. And the last anyone saw her was Amrod and Amras, saying that she had thought to go straight to Himlad, and that was far longer ago than I would have liked, and _yes_ , Curvo, I know I was stupid to have forgotten.”

Curufin turned his own cold gaze to the rain and sighed, as if to say _so did I_. “Tyelko will be snappy, with this bad news.”

“Perhaps she thought to ride through Nan Elmoth,” Galadriel thought out loud, and frowned. “But I do not know how that could have delayed her – there is nothing in Nan Elmoth save darkness and swamp.”

Curufin froze then imperceptibly, and Galadriel noticed, and turned to him with all the rage of the storm outside. But Curufin held a hand up to stop her. “I _will_ tell you, cousin – you forget that Aredhel was my friend too,” he snapped. “But I must check my maps first, and in any case we cannot leave before this storm has run its course.”

Galadriel, appropriately mollified though still wary, put her hand on her belly.

Curufin, with an age-old grief in his voice, asked, “What will you name them?”

Galadriel took this for the olive branch it was. “We are not sure yet. Celesomething, possibly, for all the golden and silver haired ones they’ll be related to, though Eru knows there’s enough of those in this family.”

This managed to startle a laugh out of Curufin, and he said, “We must simply hope that they will not be as much of a troublemaker as the rest.”

Curvo was a wicked, severe ellon, Galadriel had always known, because that was what the world had made him. But children were his weak spot and so she did not prod him, for, as the saying went, she did not want to kick the hornet’s nest. And she and Curvo bickered about spelled weapons for a few hours, and Celegorm and Celeborn found company with the guards in sparring, and the only teasing that occurred was Curvo’s careful ribbing when Galadriel admired her husband’s muscles.

The next day was filled with Curufin holed up in the library, Celegorm and Galadriel restlessly waiting for the clouds to clear, and Celeborn attempting to stay sane. The people of the fortress had wisely cleared away from their Lords and visiting Lady, seemingly knowledgeable of how grumpy their rulers could get. But on the third day, the clouds cleared, and as they ate breakfast Curufin told them of the elf who lived in Nan Elmoth – Eöl.

“I worked with him exactly once,” Curufin said, his face twisted in slight disgust. “He is a pale, bitter thing, who fears the light of day and fears those who disagree with him. But he is a talented smith, and forged swords made of starmetal, and I once desired to share knowledge, but I did not return there for it is easy to tell he has the poison of the Enemy. You will have to be very careful, today, when you enter. Eöl is called the Dark Elf for a reason – he has a command over bone and metal that is nothing short of gruesome. It is part of his crafting, and but it is disgraceful, and abhorrent.”

“You will not come with us, then,” Galadriel said, to cut off her cousin’s impending tirade.

Curufin put his hands in his lap, and for a moment he looked both older and smaller than he was, with his hair pulled back and his mouth pursed wearily. “I will not. And I do not believe Celeborn should either.”

Galadriel and Celegorm made identical faces of revulsion.

“Shut up,” Curufin said. “I already talked this over with Celeborn. Since you, Galadriel, are _absolutely intent_ upon going, it would be best that should we need to come and get you, there is someone here who is,” his face twisted again, “a truer warrior than I. And there will not be much space, with how close the trees are.”

“Fine,” Celegorm muttered. He hazarded a glance at Galadriel. “We ought to leave immediately, cousin. Best to go while the sun is out.”

Galadriel nodded, and offered a kiss to her husband, who was truly prince among ellons for letting her go with barely a peep.

So Celegorm and Galadriel found themselves cantering across the plains of Himlad towards the dark forest in the south. And perhaps it should have taken them longer to get there, and perhaps their horses should have tired, but Celegorm and Galadriel still had drops of maiar blood, and so like fire and wind they sped across the grass. And soon they were slowing as they reached the edges of the forest, and Galadriel was pulling her horse up short as she felt the sheer _wrongness_ that emanated from within.

Celegorm made a disgusted noise, seemingly agreeing with her.

Galadriel inhaled deeply, which was a mistake as it only increased the sense of wrongness. But she focused on what was important – Aredhel, with her silver dresses and her warm brown skin, with her dancing eyes and her lion’s mane of pitch black hair, with the silver bracelet that coiled around her bicep of which Galadriel wore the golden twin.

“Let us go find her,” Celegorm said, and urged his horse onward.

Galadriel would not later remember much of their journey through Nan Elmoth. It was dark and dim, even with the sun shining bright, and the marshy ground meant the horses had to pick their way through the trees. Mist twined between the trunks entrancingly, and it was perhaps best that it was only Celegorm and Galadriel, for they could catch each other when they strayed to follow the lights.

An hour or two in, Galadriel asked, “Do you have any clue where we’re going?”

“No,” Celegorm replied shortly. “But neither do you, so – ”

Perhaps they would have argued, and perhaps it would have been violent, but at a rustling in the trees Galadriel drew her sword swiftly. “Who goes there,” she called softly, and the wind swept her voice forward like it echoed.

And then came an ellon, crashing through the wood, who did not yet look like he had reached fifty years of age. His skin was neither pale nor dark; it was somewhere in between, and his hair was long and black and braided back. He wore a cloak wrapped around him, one in tatters, that Galadriel vaguely recognized – the silver and blue that Aredhel had set out from the Havens in so long ago.

Then Galadriel made a wounded noise, as she noticed the limp figure that the ellon was trying to determinedly to carry through the forest. It was her cousin, too-thin and almost unconscious, her beautiful hair matted and unkempt, her silver dress torn around the breast.

“Aredhel,” she cried, and leapt (less gracefully than Celegorm) from her horse. She hurried towards the pair, but forgot that her sword was still in her hand, and that the ellon did not know her.

“Galadriel,” Celegorm said, in a warning tone.

Galadriel sheathed her sword.

“Who are you,” the ellon said, brandishing a strange black knife that he evidently knew how to use. And there was a fierce wariness in his eyes, and Galadriel’s heart broke as she knew instantly who this was.

Galadriel kept her voice calming and even. “I am Galadriel, or perhaps you might know me as Artanis. And that is Celegorm, Tyelkormo. We are your mother’s cousins.”

Celegorm inhaled sharply.

The ellon lowered the knife, though he held it still in a ready position.

“May I?” Galadriel asked, and when the ellon reluctantly nodded, she lowered her hand to Aredhel’s forehead. Then with the healing she had learned from her grandmother and from Melian, she let a soft golden breeze coat Aredhel, and brush away some of the hurt.

Aredhel stirred, and her eyes blinked towards the ellon. “Lómion,” she murmured.

“Mother,” the ellon, Lómion, gasped out. Then, “Mother, we must go. He will be back soon.”

“Mm,” Aredhel said, still sounding very out of it. Then her eyes alit on Galadriel, and Celegorm. “Tyelko…Artanis?” And then her head was lolling back, and she fell again into a sleep, though it seemed more restful this time.

“We will ride, then,” Celegorm said to the ellon. “Can you ride?”

Lómion straightened. There was an iciness to his eyes now that was so Aredhel it made Galadriel hurt. “Yes,” he said. And, with terror showing in them now too, “We must go. He will be back soon.”

“Give me Aredhel,” Celegorm demanded, and when Lómion did not immediately agree the blond warrior snapped, “You must trust us. We are the only way you can escape here with your life.”

Lómion made a split-second decision, and helped heave his limp mother up in front of Celegorm, who would hold her as he rode. And then he scrambled onto the back of Galadriel’s horse, slight enough that even with the slight swell of her belly he could hold tight and not slip off. And then they were riding, slipping through the trees as quickly as possible, retracing their steps.

“Your name is Lómion?” Galadriel asked the ellon, who was holding tight to her waist.

He was quiet for a moment. “Maeglin Lómion,” he finally said. “But Lómion is my mother-name.”

“Then Lómion you shall be,” Galadriel promised.

Lómion nodded, short and tight. “Will she be ok?”

“Once we may get her to our fort, we will provide her as much healing as we may,” Celegorm promised, holding tight to the prone form of his cousin.

But Lómion tensed again as a horn sounded from deep within the wood. He gasped out a sob. “He is coming!”  
They sped carefully through the trees, terror driving them fast. It was by pure luck that neither of their horses twisted an ankle. But soon there came a pounding from the forest, and the horn sounded again, and the clicking as if bones necklaces were being knocked against each other.

“We must get to the plains,” Celegorm called to Galadriel, and spurred his horse even faster.

Somehow they reached the edge of the forest, and Lómion winced as they burst into bright sunshine. The bones clattered ominously close behind them.

“What are they made of,” Galadriel asked Lómion urgently.

Lómion, meanwhile, was glancing around the empty plains as they galloped across them. “You came _alone_?” He demanded.

“She never said we were smart,” Celegorm shouted.

“What the _fuck_?”

“Language,” Galadriel snapped. “Lómion! What are they made of?”

“His riders?” Lómion was almost shouting as the wind buffeted them.

“Yes.”

“They are bone, and naught else. But they are strong, and you cannot control them!”

Galadriel smiled grimly. “There are many things others tell me I cannot do.”

“Galadriel,” Celegorm called desperately. “What are you thinking?”

Behind them from the tree line burst a pale ellon on a pale horse, and creatures made of bone with eyes that glowed with a cold fire. Lómion gave out a terrified noise and held even tighter to Galadriel.

Galadriel made her own split-second decision. “Lómion,” she said. “Lómion, you must take the reigns.”

“What?” Lómion cried, as Galadriel yanked the horse to a stop, and then slid gracelessly from the horse. “Are you _mad_?”

Celegorm seemed to agree, as he wheeled his horse back around. “Cousin!” He yelled. “What in Eru’s name are you _doing_?”

“Get behind me,” Galadriel called to them, and turned towards the bone-creatures. She did not look to see if her family had obeyed her.

The world slowed, for just a moment, as they thundered towards her. The world slowed, and Galadriel breathed out, and felt the breath that moved around every living thing within a mile of her. It was a trick Melian taught her, to leave the physical self behind, and it was as if she was not herself, and yet she was, and all she could feel was rage. Rage, at Lómion’s terrified eyes, in a way that Aredhel’s had never been. Rage, at Aredhel’s torn dress and her stark ribcage and her lovely hair. Rage, at how this ellon had dared treat her family.

There was a clap of thunder, and a burst of light, and a rushing wind that drowned out everything else. Perhaps Eöl’s magic held together the skeletons, but in the end invisible bonds were nothing in the face of air powerful enough to bend trees and break stones, and they blew back towards the forest. And Galadriel, echoing another world thousands of years later, yelled, “You have no power here!” She spread her feet and pushed, like the storm across the plains, and said one last time, dangerously, loud as a shout, “You will not follow us.”

And then Eöl was forced back too, like his skeletons, and he might have been a student under the dark magic, but the rage of one with maiar blood was nothing to scoff at. With a rage-filled look, with his skeletons blown to pieces, he retreated into his forest.

Then Lómion was yanking Galadriel back onto her horse, and they were flying out of their like bats from a cave. “You had wings,” Lómion said dumbly. “There was lightning.”

Celegorm seemed to have another opinion on things. “Dumb as rocks elleth!” He shouted. “That cannot be good for the babe! For Eru’s _sake_ , Galadriel, your husband has arms like tree trunks!”

Galadriel ignored him, and the hours became like wind beneath the horses hooves, and they pounded into the lodge of Himlad just as the sky was beginning to darken with twilight. There was Celeborn waiting anxiously, and Curufin too. Galadriel stumbled off her horse and into her husband’s arms, and it was possible she had overestimated the amount of power that earlier moment had taken, for she quickly fainted.

* * *

When next she woke, she was in a bed. She gasped awake, and found that it was the dead of night.

“Artanis,” came a quiet voice from the bed next to her.

Galadriel turned, and there were Aredhel’s eyes. “You’re awake!” She gasped.

Aredhel squinted blearily at her. “You’re the one who’s been sleeping for a full day,” she accused.

“Have I,” Galadriel said, and immediately her hand went to the bump on her belly.

“Speaking of which,” Aredhel said. “When did _that_ happen?”

Galadriel blinked at her infuriating best friend. “You have a _son_!”

Aredhel blinked as well, and then they both dissolved into helpless laughter, Aredhel with a slightly hysterical edge. “Oh, Eru,” she gasped out. “Oh, _Eru_ , Galadriel, he will come for me.”

Galadriel looked sheepishly towards the bump in her stomach. Perhaps Celegorm was right. Perhaps she should not have done what she did. But then she looked towards her cousin, dwarfed in the blankets of the bed, but wearing again unripped silver robes – “I do not think he will,” she said carefully. “You may ask Lómion, if you wish, but I do believe I have suitably scared him off.”

Aredhel gave a full-body flinch at this. “Oh, Galadriel,” she whispered. “But what if he does?”

Galadriel then reached over, and grasped her hand tight enough to break it. “I swore to you once,” she said seriously. “I will always come to pull you out of trouble. And so will Celegorm, and so will Curufin, and your son is fairly ballsy as well, I must say, and you have three elder brothers and a father and mother who would tear apart cities.”

Aredhel snorted, though still she was cowed.

Galadriel ached to have dealt the Dark Elf a fiercer blow, for having made her fearless best friend afraid.

“Dear heart,” Galadriel said softly, and repeated the words like a prayer as outside the window the cruel stars glimmered and the cold rain fell and the warning wind blew. “You will not be alone. You will be loved, and you will be with us, and you will be safe, and you will be loved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have reached the end of what i had prewritten so well see if i manage to post the next four chapters on their actual days lmaoo


	4. of the savage girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the spring of the year 269, orcs came from the Lammoth and attacked Hithlum. Few were killed, and with the support of Fingon and Orodreth, the invasion was fought off, and Barad Eithel held strong. In the spring of the year 271, the Second Children awoke on the far side of the Ered Luin, though the elves of Beleriand did not yet know this. In the spring of the year 275, a dragon called Glaurung came down the mountain pass from Ard-Galen to attack the watchtower of Minas Tirith, and killed Orodreth, Lord of the Pass of Sirion.
> 
> In the late spring of the year 275, Orodreth’s only daughter Finduilas pulled her golden hair back into long ropelike braids that started at her temple in the same style as her father and twin brother, and set her mind on slaying the dragon in revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really rather mediocre writing but oh well lmao ya know here we go day four - later generations

In the spring of the year 269, orcs came from the Lammoth and attacked Hithlum. Few were killed, and with the support of Fingon and Orodreth, the invasion was fought off, and Barad Eithel held strong. In the spring of the year 271, the Second Children awoke on the far side of the Ered Luin, though the elves of Beleriand did not yet know this. In the spring of the year 275, a dragon called Glaurung came down the mountain pass from Ard-Galen to attack the watchtower of Minas Tirith, and killed Orodreth, Lord of the Pass of Sirion.

In the late spring of the year 275, Orodreth’s only daughter Finduilas pulled her golden hair back into long ropelike braids that started at her temple in the same style as her father and twin brother, and set her mind on slaying the dragon in revenge.

“This is ridiculous,” Gil-galad said. “Fin, please.”

“Are you saying that because I am an elleth I cannot do this?”

“No, I’m saying that mother will probably fade away from grief if she loses you too!”

Finduilas hated to admit that her brother had a valid point. “Look,” she said, in what she felt was a reasonable tone, “you don’t want to slay the dragon, and the dragon needs slaying – ”

“Would you stop saying slaying in that overconfident tone – ”

"So I would rather not try to take care of Minas Tirith, and you would, and you would rather not go riding off after the dragon, and I would – ”

“You cannot think to track a dragon on horseback – "

“I can and I will, Gil – ”

Gil-galad, the elder sibling and first son, who had always been more responsible than Finduilas, snapped, “This is a suicide quest!”

Finduilas took a deep breath. Nobody could get on her nerves quite like the ellon who was the other half of her brain. She said, “If we do not stop the dragon, then we do not know where it will go. Gondolin is not hidden, Gil, even with the Queen’s protection – do you _want_ it burned to the ground? Or Dorthonion, where our uncle resides, near where the dragon came from! It has killed once, and it will kill again!” Then, with only slight guilt, she pulled her face into a sad expression, and looked at her brother, who wore a weary expression on his too-young face. “Come, Gil,” she said softly. “I need to do this. For father.”

“You’re not fooling me,” Gil-galad said, but he rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. But you have to tell mother.”

Finduilas winced. “I’m not telling mother.”

“Oh, really, what if you don’t come back, Fin? Then what? You’d truly leave her, never knowing?”

“I will come back.”

“But what if you don’t, Fin.”

Finduilas pulled her twin’s forehead against her own. “I will come back. I swear to you. I will.”

“I must be mad,” Gil-galad said softly. “I shouldn’t be letting you do this.”

“You aren’t _letting_ me do anything, I am doing what I feel is right.”

“I am your Lord, now. I can command you.”

Finduilas snorted. “You’re the Lord of this place, but I am the Lady, and you are not the Lord of me.”

“No,” Gil-galad said. “I could never command you to do much of anything, really, could I.” He closed his eyes. “Take Aeglos.”

Finduilas reeled back. “What? No, Gil, that weapon is your inheritance from father, and – ”

“It is our inheritance,” Gil-galad said. “And I will not be the kind of Lord who starts my reign with a bloody weapon and a war of my own making. There are precious few people in the small city of the watchtower, but there are farmers in the valley, and villages that got attacked as well. I will help them rebuild, so that the next time war comes to us we are stronger for it.” He sighed, and though he and Finduilas had the more golden-brown hair of their mother, in that moment Gil-galad looked the spitting image of their late father. “I will not pick up that spear until there is nothing left for it.”

“Fine,” Finduilas said, because she did not have good responses for when her brother got pedantic.

“Let me help you prepare,” Gil-galad told her. “You will have to take some of my clothes.”

“Would you like some of my dresses in return?” Finduilas asked, for which Gil-galad levelled a glare at her.

So Finduilas set out at dawn the next morning, with only her brother to say goodbye. Their mother was still in her room, eyes staring at nothing. The twins didn’t know what had happened – only that when the dragon had come, he had whispered to her like the hissing of a snake, and when their father had been eaten alive, their mother had done nothing more than stare.

And that was all she had done since.

So Finduilas set out with the armor that had once been her mother’s wrapped carefully in her saddlebags, and food and maps as well. And she carried with her Aeglos, her father and brother’s spear, and wore the orange and green of her father’s house.

It took her days to pick her way up the river, through the Pass. She looked longingly towards the eastern mountains she knew surrounded Gondolin, for Finduilas had always had a love for dresses, for pretty hair, for nice things. But just as her brother had to grow to step into his role as the Lord of Minas Tirith, so Finduilas would have to step into her role as a full-grown elleth. And if that meant trousers instead of dresses, or practicing the spear-dance at night instead of waltzes, well. That was that.

But the long days meant she slept like a babe at night, in a way that she hadn’t since the dragon’s attack. She was simply too exhausted, from the muscles that her body was gaining, from the calluses that opened and then hardened on her soft feet, from the weight of the spear that she carried as she led her horse over rock and fen.

The first village she came upon was sacked, with the fire and large footprints that could only come from such a worm. She scowled, and picked her way through the ruin, and noticed that there were no bodies at all. “Thralls,” she muttered. It was no secret that the Darkness in the north had once taken captive elves to work in his forges and his mines, and thus it made sense that the dragon would march them off. But none in Minas Tirith, which was strange. Perhaps it had been that it was on an island? There were crushed trees and a path of destruction, where it had dragged itself across the ground. Too, on the edges of Dorthonion, there were scattered villages, some smoking, some full of terror. It was random, and sporadic, and it made Finduilas nervous.

As Finduilas tracked the dragon past the Vale of Sirion, past Dorthonion and up into Ard-Galen, she found something strange – it was as if the thralls he ought to be marching disappeared. As if something enormous simply picked them up off the ground. And Finduilas shivered; Glaurung had not flown, when he had come to Minas Tirith. But a dragon that could? What damage could that cause?

It was odd to be alone for so long as well. She was used to her mother, to her father, and how it hurt that they were gone, but she was used as well to her brother, always being there no matter what. They were each half of one mind, reasonable and reckless in equal turns, and in most occasions he knew her better than she knew herself. And Finduilas longed for home, for the river that rushed through the Pass and for her comfortable dresses and for the weight of her brother’s arm on her shoulder. For her mother’s intricate dancing, and her father’s deep laugh, and for the way that the birds sang in the watchtower every evening when the widow from the village tossed birdseed out.

But home was not home anymore. And it would certainly not be home if the beast that killed her father was still on the loose.

So she rode the high northern hills of Dorthonion, and looked east towards where her uncle Aegnor and his cousin Argon held their part of the Seige of Angband. And she did not know it, but she walked many of the same paths that Lalwen and Lúthien once had before the Dagor Aglareb. The sky was blue, with her crying hawks and her diving falcons, and the plains were green, with their wandering goat and horse herds, and many nights glorious thunderstorms swept across Ard-Galen with dazzling displays of light and torrential rains (though those made sleeping rather miserable). But still Finduilas pressed on, for she would not rest until Glaurung was dead, and in any case grief was an all-encompassing thing for one who known her own father for so little time.

In the end, it was not any trick of magic that saved Finduilas, nor any great fighting skills. It was simply that she could not stand the sound of chewing, and while she loved her horse dearly, the sound of him smacking his cud was enough to make her want to tear her hair out, and so many nights she ate dinner and watched the fire with wads of fabric stuffed in her ears that her mother had made for her when she was little. So when Glaurung slithered up behind Finduilas, and whispered to her the way he might have in another world, the primary thing that saved her from the compulsion was merely the fact that she could not hear anything at all.

She _could,_ however, feel the wind as it moved around the campsite, and the disruptions of the air, and when something so large – so horrifically, numbingly, mind-bendingly _large –_ appeared so suddenly, she spun and brought Aeglos around with reflexes she did not know she had. For a moment they both stared at each other in surprise.

Finduilas thought glumly that this would certainly be no tale for the legends.

Glaurung recovered though, with a coldly terrifying intelligence in his eyes (which were as big as Finduilas was tall) and tilted his head. Finduilas knew then instantly that if she heard his voice, even in her mind, it would spell her doom. And she filled her mind with a cacophony – the shrieking of the birds leaving the watchtower at sunset, and the rumbling of thunder, and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone streets, and the screech of metal as her brother clashed swords with her.

The thing about this tale was that Finduilas was no storybook hero. She was not Maedhros the Tall, or Findis the Bright, or Fingon the Valiant, and however much she wished she was, she was not. She was not prepared for the fight, her body still tense, and her stomach was knotted with hunger since she had not yet skinned the rabbit for dinner. And her skills, too – they were not good, since the spear was arguably too big for her, and in any case she still did not have all the right muscles.

But the other thing about this tale was that, in the end, all that would matter was if she won. The songs would make up the rest from there.

So, with a resigned sort of weariness, she swung the spear at him.

What followed was a blur of things that overwhelmed her senses and convinced her that she would most likely be glad to never see true battle. The fabric in her ears helped, in a way, as it eliminated the noises that often put her on edge, but still there was the rumbling in her mind, and the way the wind twisted around Glaurung strangely, and how the firelight would glint off his scales at angles that made her head hurt, and the ache in her hands from holding Aeglos, and the twinge in her back as she dodged again and again, and the sweat dripping into stinging cuts, and –

Dashing under his low hanging belly, and the spear, pushing through the scales like butter with a sharpness that evidently neither Finduilas nor Glaurung had expected. And he snapped and bit and roared, but she crouched and pressed towards his heart, and he could not get to her.

"You were a good foe,” Finduilas said, gasping, as the roaring in her mind subsided and the dragon’s whispering could faintly be heard. “And I thank you for not eating my horse. But you killed my father, and so I must kill you.”

Glaurung whispered in her head. “ _Worthless little girl, all alone now, aren’t you, so strange and queer, do they not call you changeling, in the village? Do they not say you should have been drowned at birth?_ _Do they not prefer your brother_ – ”

Finduilas dug the spear in with all the strength in her body, and turned it too. It made a squelching noise, and she almost puked as blood sprayed about, and dug deeper even as she breathed through the nausea. And when finally he twitched one last time and his balance gave out and he flopped over dead, Finduilas just sighed.

“They do,” she said quietly. “But they are not bad folk. They do not deserve to die for it.”

And neither had her father or her mother, and yet they did. So Finduilas sat down suddenly beside the fire, and became very tired as the adrenaline left her body. She _ached_ , all over, for most of that battle had been her dodging beneath his enormous body (she still could not believe how incredibly enormous he was) and trying not to get hit by his tail or his legs, and she had not been entirely successful. And there were a million tiny cuts from his scales, and bites on her hand and her leg, and a horrible pounding headache behind her temples, and blood spattered all over her good clothes too.

Finduilas glanced towards her horse, who seemingly had been caught by the dragon’s spell, and was only now released from it. And she suddenly laughed, for he stood by the saddlebags, in which were packed her mother’s old armor, and she had not even gotten a chance to use it. She stood, and limped over to her horse, and pet his nose carefully. “What a story this will make,” she said, and sighed.

The next morning, with absolutely no fanfare at all, she set out back home. This time, however, she had enormous dragon’s teeth like knives, and she’d thought to bring the head back, but it was as she was sawing through the neck with Aeglos (her father would have a conniption if he saw the age-old Telerin heirloom being used as such) that she realized how colossally of a bad idea this was.

“Aw, what the fuck,” she said, as it finally detached from the neck the size of a small house, and fell apart with an enormously disgusting noise, and splattered goo everywhere. “Aw, what the _fuck_.”

Her horse gave a revolted nicker and trotted several thousand feet away from the head.

“Oh, come on!” Finduilas yelled after him. “Don’t just leave me here alone!”

But eventually she found a house-wagon from a nearby village that Glaurung must have been waiting in, and onto it the dragon’s head went, or as much of the head as would fit, and they had only just set off a few miles or so when there was a cry.

“Ho, there!” Came a voice, and a pounding of hooves, and Finduilas rubbed her temples again as a headache started to build. She turned reluctantly to face the leader of the mounted warriors, and then found that it was a blond ellon whom she recognized.

“Why,” he said, and looked startled. “You’re Orodreth’s girl, aren’t you.”

“Finduilas,” Finduilas said. “A pleasure to meet you, Uncle.”

Her uncle, Aegnor of Dorthonion, looked over the dragon. “And what would this be?”

Finduilas dismounted her horse, and walked over to the edge of the wagon. She pulled the back, and watched with satisfaction as the head spilled out and the riders jumped back with noticeable fright.

“This is Glaurung,” said she. “Not two months ago he came down upon my home in Minas Tirith, and ate my father, and left my mother mute and unseeing. Now I have killed him in return. But this head is unwieldy, though I thought to bring it back as proof, and so I think I shall leave it here for the carrion crows.”

Aegnor recovered gracefully. “Then, niece, I bid you stay, and tell me stories of you and your twin, and I will have my men cut you bracers of dragonhide, as befits the Dagnir Glaurunga.”

Finduilas figured she had nowhere better to be.

“Let me send some guards with you,” Aegnor said a little while later, “to escort you back to your home.”

"No, thank you,” Finduilas said. “I got here on my own, and I will get back on my own too.”

“Niece, let me – ”

“No.”

Aegnor sighed. “You sound like Galadriel.”

Finduilas evaluated what she knew of her father’s only sister. “I believe that is a compliment.”

Aegnor laughed, a sad and forlorn sound. “It may very well be.”

Perhaps, Finduilas realized, as Aegnor asked her for stories of her father and of her brother and of Minas Tirith, and of Uncle Finrod and Aunt Galadriel when they had come to visit, perhaps, Aegnor was lonely. So Finduilas told him, little bits and pieces, as his warriors cut up the dragon’s head, and then presented her with a rough pair of bracers.

“It is tough as anything,” one of the said, as she pulled them on her forearms.

“It is,” Finduilas agreed. “And I thank you, for your kindness and your hospitality. But I think I will be on my way now.”

Aegnor’s eyes were sad, and Finduilas thought of the Uncle Angrod she had never known.

“I will see you again soon,” Finduilas said, even though they both knew that was not sure.

And then they parted ways, and Finduilas did not look back, even though she knew it would be long before she saw her uncle again. She did not see many others for the whole long journey home, and when she finally did glimpse the island in the distance, it was nearly fall. And she did not feel any different, not even in her mourning, though she had hunted down her father’s killer. She had set out, determined to do this one thing, sure that it would ease her grief, and yet now she felt no different.

The bells rang the hour as she crossed the bridge to the island, leading her horse by the reins. And there her brother met her, in the braids and colors of their father, and it would almost have been impossible to tell which was which, save the sadness on Gil-galad’s face.

“What is it,” Finduilas asked, and then, “Gil, what is it?”

“Mother threw herself from the tower a few weeks ago,” he said. “In the dead of night. We found her body in the morning.”

He did not quiet, and he did not fall. The twin children of Orodreth had always had this tendency, to face their grief head on. Not that it did much anyway.

Finduilas numbly wrapped an arm around her brother.

“You slayed the dragon, I take it,” Gil-galad said into her shoulder.

Finduilas showed him her bracers, and the teeth. And he took one, and so did she, and Aeglos was put away, and from that time onward the twin Lord and Lady of Minas Tirith and the Pass of Sirion were known for the terrible teeth they were as adept with as swords.

But for now, they were simply two children who had lost their parents. Who had barely known their parents, such a short time in the grand scheme of the lives of the Eldar.

 _I didn’t even say goodbye to her,_ Finduilas thought miserably. “What is left?” She asked.

Gil-galad sighed, and drew strength as he squeezed her tight, and then stood, his broad shoulders and his back held straight. They two looked at the bridge, which had been repaired since Finduilas left, and some of the houses that lined the street, which had not.

“We rebuild,” Gil-galad said. “Just like we always have.”

* * *

Idril really felt rather bad for Glorfindel; having to escort a full grown elleth halfway across Beleriand on the behest of her father would not be anyone’s first choice, even despite that they had been on the road for a few weeks and there had barely been any complaints.

“I’m sorry again,” she told him, and the other four guards.

Glorfindel shook his head. “I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, squeak. There’s members of my House in Gondolin, and I’m happy to escort you there.”

Idril rolled her eyes as the four others (also members of the House of the Golden Flower, though they’d followed Glorfindel and his cousin Elenwë to Vinyamar with Turgon) laughed. “I’m an _adult_ ,” Idril said. “Glorfindel, I am almost four hundred years old! Stop calling me that!”

Glorfindel reached over to mess with her hair. “Never, squeak.”

The daughter of the Lord of Nevrast turned to glare at the snickering guards, who hurriedly turned their smiles into coughs.

“Sorry, my lady,” one of them said. “A bee in my throat, you see.”

Idril rolled her eyes, but it was affectionate. She’d grown up with all these guards, who’d doted on her for being their Lady Elenwë’s spitting image, but also for having their Lord Turgon’s calm (ish) and careful countenance. She was the child of both of them, with her father’s bronze skin and her mother’s golden hair, with the tight curls that she wore loose in a mane like her aunt. And it had been a good childhood, in Vinyamar-by-the-sea, with the small Noldor household and the Sindarin villages scattered throughout Nevrast, where Idril had learned to sing and sew, and eventually, dance. (Though that one had taken a while, for her balance had always been off since the ice, without toes and with feet that often did not feel much at all.) And in later, more recent years, the visits of her aunt and her uncle, and her aunt would bring her son Lómion, and Idril had taught him to sing, and they had become friends.

And so finally, when Lómion too had grudgingly agreed, her father had allowed Idril to leave for the three hundred year celebration in Gondolin with a few guards and her cousin.

Lómion was also refreshingly blunt, a majority of the time, which made him a good travel companion. For example: “How aren’t you wearing shoes?” He demanded as he came back from filling their waterskins, and hunkered down next to the fire.

The other guards froze; many still did not like remembering their time on the Ice, and asking their delicate Lord’s heir about the horrible scars on her feet was what they would call a touchy subject. Idril, on the other hand, had three hundred years to get used to them. Her mother even called her Celebrindal, for them, which Idril thought was a good name.

“I can’t feel anything,” Idril deadpanned.

Lómion understood her sense of humor, unlike some of the guards. “So they are as cold as your heart?” His expression was equally solemn.

Idril cackled and threw a handful of leaves at him.

Glorfindel laughed at the two of them, as he always would. She and Lómion were opposite as night and day, and though her cousin had in time sought to marry her, once Idril had taken him down to the practice arena to watch Glorfindel and some of the House of the Golden Flower train, Lómion had quickly realized his interests lied elsewhere. (And that, perhaps, had been the beginning of their friendship – his sadness, and despondency, as he told her that what he felt was wrong, and unnatural, and how Idril’s heart had broken at hearing what his father had told him.) So they were friends now, and true cousins, and it certainly helped that he was her escape from Vinyamar.

“You look like you might leap out of your skin,” Lómion told her, a few days later, as they finally rode through the gates in the mountain and the border of shimmering gold.

“I am ridiculously excited,” Idril told him.

“With the emphasis on ridiculous.”

“Oh, shut up.”

But even Lómion could not contain his excitement, as they passed under the mountain and through sets of guards, and Glorfindel was greeted enthusiastically by a few, and then finally there was light ahead, and another shimmering border, and –

“ _Wow_ ,” Idril said.

“Wow,” Lómion agreed.

There was a far green valley in a crater, and the mountains all around, and the blue sky above. And the city was gleaming, white and beautiful like Idril’s early memories of Tirion, and the silver bridge they were on led towards the city in the distance. Idril glanced down from the bridge, and grinned as she saw how high up they were. And a river ran below too, like a shining white ribbon, off to a lake in the far eastern side of the valley.

“Is it everything you dreamed of?” Lómion asked.

“And more,” Idril said breathlessly.

She urged her horse faster, as they walked along the broad bridge, passing people of all sizes and colors that moved in a steady line, each checked in and out at the gate. As they got closer to the city, the delicate flowing lines were revealed, all spires and silver stone, staircases and geometric outlooks.

 _Gondolin_ , Idril thought.

They were met at yet another gate, this one into the city itself, by warriors with blue and silver uniforms.

“The House of the Fountain,” Glorfindel said to them. “Here I bring Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Lord Turgon of Nevrast, and Maeglin Lómion, son of Aredhel Lady of Dor-Lómin.” And the guards bowed, and did almost let them through, but Glorfindel leaned in. “And if perhaps one of you would also find your Lord, and tell him that Laurefindelë is here to see him, I would be much obliged.”

Idril raised an eyebrow at him, but he just smiled mysteriously.

During the days counting down to the new year, she and Lómion spent a lot of time exploring the streets. They went often at sunset when the whole city was soaked with golden light, and the spires on the palace and the distant peaks of the mountains were as if lit with pale red fire. They would go during the day too, with Glorfindel and his friend Ecthelion sometimes, hurrying through the chilly streets and ducking into small shops, their noses pink with how unused to the cold they were.

But then came the shortest and last day of the year, and Idril spent the whole afternoon getting ready, for the celebration began at sundown. First there was a feast, and though not many members of the House of Finwë were present other than the High Queen (who was bright and proud and unapproachable) there were a few seated with Idril and Lómion, namely the sadly noble Finduilas Dagnir Glaurunga and a shyly beautiful elleth named Celebrían, who wore a pale blue dress and had silver hair that fell straight down to her waist, and was wound upon her head in complex braids. And Idril and Celebrían and Lómion talked amongst themselves, and even Finduilas eventually laughed at some of Lómion’s darker jokes.

“Your mother told me you had a brother?” Celebrían asked Finduilas at one point. “He is not here?”

Finduilas was spinning a small rock in her hand repetitively, and rubbing the smooth face of it every so often. “He is Lord of Minas Tirith,” she said, “and there have been many orc attacks, recently. One of us had to stay, but one of us had to come to represent the west.” She shrugged. “Best for it to have been him that stayed. I do not do well with disputes amongst people.”

“That is fair,” Celebrían said quietly, and Idril put together that she and Finduilas were actually cousins. “You have a lovely dress, though.”

“Everyone looks lovely,” Idril added. “I have not been to a festival quite of this scale before, though,” she admitted. It was almost overwhelming, with everyone spinning around the room and talking and eating, like so many brightly dressed butterflies.

“They are not all they’re cracked up to be,” Celebrían said, which startled a laugh out of both Lómion and Finduilas.

“Neither have I,” Finduilas said, in response to Idril. She spun the rock. “So far, they are relatively awful.”

Idril frowned. “Why so?”

“It is far too bright,” Finduilas said. “And loud.”

Idril and Celebrían both shrugged, but Lómion was nodding in agreement. Idril, who knew her cousin’s wish for silence sometimes, said, “What if we stepped outside, for a bit?”

Celebrían’s face lit up. “There is a spot,” she said. “It will be used for festivities for tomorrow’s first sunrise, but for now it will certainly be quiet and beautiful.”

Finduilas shrugged, and Lómion nodded, and they stood and slipped away from the room full of preening butterflies, and Celebrían led them down the halls like a pale moth flitting through the starlight.

But – “Oh,” Idril breathed, when they stepped out on the enormous terrace, smooth like glass. They four drifted over towards the distant railing, towards the far off snow-capped mountains and the pale lights that glimmered below and the stars that shown so indifferently above, as if the view was both real and unreal.

Lómion shivered as he leaned against the railing, but not from cold. “I do not particularly like heights,” he admitted.

Idril bumped her shoulder against his. _I will catch you if you fall_.

Finduilas, on the other hand, took a deep breath in and stood tall, dropping the stone in her pocket. “This is more like it,” she said, with barely concealed joy in her voice.

Celebrían was leaning over the railing, her hair falling past her shoulders. She said, with the quiet voice of one who found secrets told easier in the dark, “I think if I jumped off I could fly.”

Lómion, surprisingly, said, “You probably could.”

Finduilas raised an incredulous eyebrow at him.

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Your mother,” he nodded to Celebrían, “rescued my mother and I, from my father.”

Idril froze. She had heard only part of this story before.

“When she was pregnant with me, yes?”

Lómion nodded again. “But when she pushed my father back, she used the force of a storm. And,” he hesitated, “there were…wings. When she did it.” He shrugged. “So I suppose if you jump, and you do hit the ground, we will know you are a bastard child.”

Idril would have put her face in her hands, except it was a bit funny. Evidently Finduilas and Celebrían thought so too, as Celebrían let out her silver-bell giggle and Finduilas gave a deep laugh.

“I suppose we might,” Celebrían said, still snickering.

Lómion blinked at Idril, and it was a stunned happiness, and the four of them lapsed back into a comfortable silence.

“I do not want to go home,” Idril said, resting her head on her arms on the railing, looking out over the mountains. “The world is so big, and I do not want to go back home, not when my father will trap me again.”

“The world is big,” Finduilas said softly, “but it is not kind.”

Idril shrugged. She spun on her feet which were bare, which people often looked upon with a sort of pity for their strange shape. “Yes,” she said. “But still it is beautiful.”

“I know that dance,” Finduilas said with a sort of surprise. “But I know the leading part.”

Idril paused, and laughed. “Then come lead,” she said. “For I only know the follow.”

So the two distant cousins spun each other gracefully across the terrace, following music only in their heads. When they found themselves back at the beginning, they saw a silver head and a dark head laughing on the ground. Lómion and Celebrían had tried to dance, it seemed, but in the end had just dumped each other on the ground. And they all laughed, and small snowflakes started to fall, glinting and flurrying through the air.

Celebrían said suddenly, “I will be going east soon, to Andram, to visit my uncle, Finrod, and my cousin Celebrimbor. If any of you would like to join me, I would gladly welcome the company.”

“I cannot,” Finduilas said, “For I must return home to my brother.” She gave them all a sudden smile, like dawn breaking. “But send me letters, if you can.”

Idril realized, even as she looked to Lómion, that she wanted to go. She did not want to go back to Vinyamar-by-the-sea, though she loved her parents, for they would keep her there forever and ever, never forgetting the Ice and how she had hurt. And the guards too, and the folk in the town, who looked at her feet and thought her strange, and though they were kind, she was not that child anymore.

She nodded. “I would go, if you do not mind.”

Celebrían offered them her moth smile, pale and fluttery and brighter in the dark.

Lómion sighed. “Alright,” he said. “As long as we go nowhere near Nan Elmoth.”

And Idril leaned back, and looked up towards the snow, which fell like stardust from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what happens next offscreen: maeglin has gay panic because of celebrimbor
> 
> also [this](https://stormwarnings.tumblr.com/post/631325368945704960/busymagpie-finduilas) was the image of finduilas in my head that entire time

**Author's Note:**

> if you want, check out my [tumblr](https://stormwarnings.tumblr.com/tagged/wip%3A-bone-of-my-bone-and-flesh-of-my-flesh) for all my character/place inspo


End file.
